MZETTE 


L  I  Z  E  T  T  E 


tf)e 


Hatm 


EDWARD    ^[ARSHALL 

With    Illustrations   by 
C.  D.   WILLIAMS 

AND 

;,    C.    FIREMAN 


LEWIS,     SCRIBNER     &      CO. 
NEW    YORK    :     :     :     ;    MDCCCCII 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
LEWIS,  SCRIBNER  &  Co. 


All  Rights  Reserved 
Published  October,  1908 


trrtrfcatrt 

to  mi>  ttuo  ofstrrs 


€ontcnt0 

i 

Father  and  Son 

1 

n 

TJie  Cafe  Domperille 

4 

in 

A  Ducking  in  the  Seine 

14 

IV 

An  Artistic  Hazing 

22 

V 

Kentucky 

27 

VI 

Shadows  of  the  Past 

35 

VII 

At  the  Moulin  Rouge 

42 

VIII 

In  the  Studio 

48 

IX 

A  Dinner  Party 

53 

X 

"Marry  Her,   You  Idiot!" 

70 

XI 

Kentucky's  Confession 

80 

XII 

A  Summons  for  Murdoch 

96 

XIII 

The  Call  of  Duty 

108 

XIV 

In  the  Toils  of  Circumstance 

115 

XV 

An   Unexpected   Visitor 

125 

XVI 

Lizette's  Prayer 

135 

XVII 

The  Joy  of  Preparation 

141 

XVIII 

Mary  Markleham's  Secret 

153 

XIX 

Lizette  Seeks  an  Answer 

171 

Contents 

XX 

Gone 

184 

XXI 

A  Tangled  Skein 

196 

XXII 

Unraveling  the  Threads 

211 

XXIII 

The  Road  to  Lourdes 

222 

XXIV 

The  Great  Pilgrimage 

229 

XXV 

Face  to  Face 

237 

XXVI 

Miss  Markleham  Again 

243 

XXVII 

Kentucky's  Great  Discovery 

248 

XXVIII 

The  Story  of  the  Old   Woman 
Who  Sold  Coals 

265 

XXIX 

Defeat 

271 

XXX 

John  Murdoch,  Banker 

273 

XXXI 

A  Business  Transaction 

278 

XXXII 

Kentucky's  Investment 

282 

XXXIII 

Hope  Revived 

286 

XXXIV 

At  Last 

292 

Xllustratfons 

PAGE 

Lizette 

Frontis 
piece 

Murdoch 

32 

Kentucky 

80 

The  Old  Woman  Who 
Sold  Coals 

128 

LIZETTE 

CHAPTEE  I. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

It  is  good  to  have  a  father  who  is  rich,  better  to  have  a 
father  who  is  wise,  and  best  of  all  to  have  a  father  who 
is  both — which  was  John  Murdoch's  happy  fortune.  The 
son  had  just  come  home  from  college,  newly  graduated. 
The  father  looked  at  him  with  curiosity.  They  had  been 
good  friends — this  father  and  this  son — but  now  there  was 
reserve  between  them.  The  young  man's  life  must  now 
begin  in  earnest,  and  both  paused  and  felt  embarrassed  as 
they  faced  the  problem.  The  father  wanted  to  ask  many 
questions  about  future  plans — but  hesitated.  The  son  had 
made  his  plans,  but  looked  for  scornful  smiles — and  also 
hesitated. 

Business  hours  had  ended  at  the  bank.  John  sat  in  the 
visitors'  chair,  across  the  desk  from  his  father's  larger  one 
of  carved  mahogany.  His  father  was  president  of  the 
bank — a  serious  matter — and  the  chair  in  which  he  sat  par 
took  in  its  appearance  of  the  dignity  of  the  position.  The 
whole  room  was  solemn:  carpet,  woodwork,  everything 
about  it.  So  also  were  the  men. 

The  old  man  smoked,  leaned  far  back  in  his  chair,  which 
tipped,  and  gazed  with  musing  eyes  across  the  desk;  three 
things  he  never  would  have  done  in  business  hours. 

"Well,  John,"  he  said  at  last,  "now  that  you  have  fin 
ished  college,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  your  sum 
mer?" 

He  had  wanted  to  say  "life,"  but  he  had  compromised 
on  "summer." 

The  son,  whose  face  combined  the  solemn,  practical 


2  LIZETTE. 

features  of  the  father  with  the  softer,  more  artistic  face 
of  the  dead  mother,  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  gather 
ing  strength  to  meet  expected  opposition.  When  he  finally 
spoke  he  did  not  meet  his  father's  eyes. 

"I  have  planned  to  go  abroad,"  he  said,  slowly. 

His  father  nodded  with  approval. 

"Well,  my  son/'  he  said,  "I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't. 
It  ought  to  be  a  good  thing  for  you.  I  had  thought,  be 
fore  you  came,  of  speaking  of  it  to  you.  I  should  like  to 
have  you  see  the  world.  I  never  did.  We  might  as  well 
arrange  it  now.  How  much  money  do  you  want?  How 
long  do  you  want  to  stay?  When  do  you  want  to  go?" 

John  Murdoch's  father,  it  will  be  seen,  was  prompt. 
He  wasted  neither  words  nor  time  in  talking.  The  son 
was  also  terse  in  his  reply. 

"I  shall  need  a  moderate  allowance.  I  want  to  go  at 
once  and  I  have  planned  to  stay  four  years." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  in  blank  amazement,  al 
though  surprise  was  rarely  shown  in  the  banking  house 
of  John  Murdoch  by  master  or  by  man,  being  contrary  to 
the  ethics  of  the  business.  Then  he  said  calmly,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his  son's,  which  were  downcast: 

"Humph!  If  there  is  wisdom  in  your  plan,  of  course 
it  will  be  right  for  you  to  go.  If  you've  gone  mad  you 
will  attract  less  notice  there  than  here.  I  offer  no  objec 
tion.  You  are  not  a  child.  Name  a  reasonable  figure  for 
your  allowance  and  that  will  be  arranged.  I  am  aston 
ished.  Four  years!  It  is  a  long  vacation!" 

The  son  spoke: 

"I  ought  to  have  two  thousand  dollars  yearly  to  begin 
on.  I  may  need  more.  I  cannot  tell  with  any  accuracy 
what  it  will  cost  to  live  in  Paris.  I  shall  not  waste  money. 
I  shall  not  have  time.  I  am  going  there  to  study  art.  I 
am  not  lazy,  sir,  and  have  not  planned  for  a  'vacation.'  r 

There  had  never  been  a  hint  of  this  before  between 
them.  The  old  man  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  He  turned 
his  glance  away  from  his  son's  face  and  moved  one  hand 
along  the  polished  side  of  his  big  chair.  When  he  spoke 
there  was  a  look  still  more  foreign  to  the  banking  busi 
ness  in  his  eyes.  That  his  son  should  want  to  study  art 


FATHER  AND  SON.  3 

was  most  amazing.  But  if  he  wanted  to,  why  shouldn't 
he?  He,  himself,  had  gone  into  the  banking  business 
because  his  inclination  led  him  to  it.  He  thought  of  the 
characteristics  of  this  boy's  mother's  nature.  It  pleased 
him,  in  a  negative  way,  to  find  this  strong  touch  of  her 
temperament  in  their  son.  It  was  strange  that  his  own 
purely  practical,  business  nature  should  not  have  domi 
nated  in  their  child;  but  he  had  truly  loved  the  mother 
and  he  truly  loved  the  son.  There  was  an  incongruity 
about  the  thing,  though — like  cashing  checks  by  giving 
marble  statues  for  them  at  the  bank. 

"That's  very  curious,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  am  aston 
ished,  but  perhaps  you're  not  as  crazy  as  you  sound.  I 
guess  it's  what  your  mother  gave  you.  You  never  got 
such  notions  out  of  me.  But  if  it  came  from  her,  it's  all 
right — surely.  So — if  you  want  to — study  art,  my  son, 
why — study  art.  I  don't  suppose  that  it  will  hurt  you  any, 
and  I  am  certain  that  it  won't  hurt  me  so  very  much.  It 
will  upset  the  plans  that  I  had  made  about  the  bank;  but 
human  plans  are  often  overturned.  But  if  you  study  art, 
my  son,  there's  one  thing  I  want  clearly  understood — 
you've  got  to  be  a  damned  good  artist.  If  you've  got  that 
in  you,  go  ahead.  If  it's  not  there,  don't  be  an  ass  and 
waste  your  time.  Have  you  thought  the  matter  over  care 
fully?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  John  Murdoch,  flushing  slightly.  "I 
have  thought  the  matter  over  and  decided.  I  am  glad 
of  your  approval." 

"I  haven't  said,"  the  old  man  interrupted,  "that  you 
had  that." 

"I  should  be  sorry  not  to  have  it,"  said  John  Mur 
doch,  slowly,  "but  it  would  not  change  my  plans.  I  shall 
Ic  a  damned  good  artist,  though;  I  promise  that,  sir." 

The  old  man  smiled  a  little.  The  young  man's  state 
ment  that  his  course  had  with  finality  been  set,  and  would 
not  be  altered  to  meet  the  views  of  any  one,  roused  his 
admiration.  He  even  chuckled  audibly. 

"All  right,  my  son,  I'll  fix  the  money.  You  keep 
that  'damned'  in  mind,"  he  said. 

"I  shall,  sir,"  said  John  Murdoch. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  CAFE  DOMPEEILLE. 

John  Murdoch,  when  he  arrived  in  Paris,  did  not  num 
ber  among  his  accomplishments  the  ability  to  speak 
French.  He  did  not,  so  far  as  he  knew,  number  among 
his  acquaintances  a  single  person  in  the  city.  And  he  did 
number  among  his  discomforts  a  feeling  of  great  loneli 
ness.  He  bore  with  him,  from  professors  in  his  college, 
letters  of  introduction  and  commendation  to  certain  art 
instructors;  but  he  did  not  present  them.  He  was  an 
independent  young  tub  by  nature,  and  he  preferred  to 
stand  on  his  own  bottom.  He  had  not  been  in  any  for 
eign  country  before,  and  his  keen,  young,  American  eyes 
were  closely  and  critically  observant. 

In  this  first  day  he  learned  much  of  French  human 
nature.  He  became  hardened  to  the  look  of  blank,  cow- 
eyed  amazement,  which  is  generally  accompanied  by  a 
cold  glitter  of  cruel  mirth,  when  a  Frenchman  finds  that 
some  one  ignorant  of  French  is  trying  to  talk  to  him. 
He  struggled  to  fill  his  empty  stomach  before  eleven 
o'clock,  but  was  unable  to  get  a  breakfast  heartier  than 
rolls  and  coffee.  He  tried  to  board  both  a  street  car  and 
an  omnibus,  only  to  be  pushed  away,  while  the  conductors 
murmured  a  French  word  which  he  did  not  understand, 
but  which  meant  "full."  He  was  regarded  with  amused 
contempt  by  one  caiman  because  he  paid  him  more  than 
his  fare,  and  villified  and  abused  by  another  because  he 
paid  him  exactly  the  legal  rate,  but  did  not  give  him  the 
customary  tip  of  two  and  one-half  cents.  He  was  dis 
appointed  by  the  Seine,  which  he  found  to  be  a  narrow, 
muddy  stream.  The  small  French  soldiers,  with  their 
half-way  short  trousers,  elaborately  baggy  about  the  hips, 


THE  CAFE  DOMPERILLE.  5 

did  not  look  to  him  like  fighting  men,  and  he  sarcastically 
called  to  mind  Artenras  Ward's  then  recent  explanation 
of  this  brevity  of  their  nether  garments.  With  high  con 
tempt  of  the  French  military's  somewhat  unsoldierlike 
appearance,  Ward  said,  in  writing  home  from  Paris,  that 
he  had  with  great  interest  investigated  this  affair.  He 
had  found,  he  said,  that  the  maidenly  appearance  of  the 
trousers  was  due  to  lack  of  funds.  It  had  been  the  orig 
inal  intention,  he  had  learned,  to  have  a  row  of  tatting 
about  the  bottom  of  each  trouser  leg  in  all  the  great 
French  army.  But  the  appropriation  had  run  out.  Mur 
doch  appreciated  this  as  he  gazed  at  them.  The  little 
soldiers  did  look  much  like  puppets,  and  their  pantaloons 
like  pantalettes  of  awkward  cut  and  uncouth  color.  It 
seemed  absurd  to  Murdoch  that  policemen  should  carry 
swords  instead  of  clubs.  He  thought  that  the  women  who 
passed  his  place  of  observation  were  garishly  and  the  men 
badly  dressed.  In  short,  John  Murdoch  did  not  like  his 
first  glimpse  of  Paris. 

Many  men  do  not. 

All  women  do. 

By  and  by,  in  order  that  he  might  find  the  place  of  art 
and  artists,  he  asked  the  interpreter  at  the  hotel  how  he 
might  reach  the  Latin  Quarter.  The  interpreter,  he 
mused,  as  the  man  in  uniform  jabbered  at  him,  had  prob 
ably  been  selected  for  his  place  in  a  French  hotel  fre 
quented  by  Americans  because  he  could  only  speak  Ice 
landic.  He  certainly  could  not  speak  English,  and  Mur 
doch  had  grave  doubts  about  his  French.  Finally,  how 
ever,  he  learned  through  him  that  it  was  unwise  to  waste 
time  in  the  Quarter  before  eleven  o'clock  at  night — a 
statement  wholly  false,  which  it  is  still  the  custom  among 
the  hotel  folk  of  Paris  to  tell  to  Americans.  There  were 
hours  of  weary  waiting  before  him.  He  spent  some  of 
them  in  watching  a  play  and  wondering  stupidly  what  was 
being  said  upon  the  stage.  As  he  was  getting  into  a  cab 
after  the  theatrical  performance  had  mercifully  ended,  he 
saw  a  man  whom  he  had  met  on  the  ship  coming  over. 
He  was  named  Fitzpatrick,  and  he  was  the  buyer  for  a 
wholesale  hat  house  in  New  York.  Murdoch  had  not  been 


6  LIZETTE. 

particularly  impressed  by  him  on  the  ship,  but  now  he 
hailed  his  distinctly  New  York  English  with  great  joy. 
Fitzpatrick  was  full  of  fun  and  wholly  in  his  element. 
He  jabbered  something,  which  Murdoch  presumed  was 
French,  to  the  driver,  for  the  man  seemed  to  understand  it 
and  showed  that  he  regarded  the  speaker  with  real  re 
spect.  Murdoch  had  begun  to  think  that  Paris  cabmen 
had  respect  for  no  one.  They  drove  to  the  Cafe  de  la 
Paix,  where  they  drank  beer  in  mugs  and  coffee  in  glasses. 
Murdoch  poured  his  indignation  against  the  whole  French 
race  into  Fitzpatrick's  amused  ears. 

"Pshaw,"  said  Fitzpatrick.  "The  Frenchies  are  all 
right.  Wait  till  you  get  used  to  'em.  You'll  only  think 
they're  funny  then.  You  won't  waste  time  in  hatin'  'em. 
And  there's  a  lot  o'  joy  in  gay  Paree  after  you  begin  to 
learn  the  ropes.  You'd  never  find  a  place  like  this  cafe, 
for  instance,  in  New  York.  Some  man  will  start  one, 
some  day,  and  get  rich  out  of  it.  We  think  we're  rapid 
over  there,  but  really  we're  slow  in  some  things.  Wait  a 
minute.  If  you'll  give  me  time  to  jump  into  the  hotel 
and  get  a  Frenchman  I'm  trying  to  do  some  business  with, 
we'll  all  go  over  to  the  Quarter.  If  it's  a  good  night  it'll 
tickle  you  to  death.  If  it  ain't,  it'll  make  you  long  for 
home  and  mother." 

By  half-past  eleven  the  three  were  at  the  Cafe  Dom- 
perille,  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  The  young  French 
man,  who  was  Fitzpatrick's  guest,  gabbled  on  the  way 
about  the  places  they  were  passing,  and  Fitzpatrick  threw 
free  translations  of  what  he  said  into  Murdoch's  interested 
ears.  They  clattered  over  the  bridge,  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment  before  the  great  fountain  at  the  head  of  the  Boule 
vard,  and  then,  after  the  driver  had  madly  whipped  his 
horse,  as  the  Parisian  cocJier  always  does  unless  one  is  in 
a  hurry  or  driving  by  the  hour,  dashed  up  in  front  of  their 
selected  destination. 

The  Cafe  Domperille  (which  is  not  its  real  name)  is  a 
low-browed  establishment,  fronting  on  two  streets.  It  was 
then  the  most  popular  all-night  resort  for  the  students  of 
the  Latin  Quarter,  their  girl  companions  and  the  hun 
dreds  of  hangers  on  about  the  art  settlement  of  Paris.  It 


THE  CAFE  DOMPERILLE.  7 

still  enjoys  a  large  prosperity,  although  it  has  lost  some 
of  its  old  prestige.  It  has  two  or  three  rows  of  tables  on 
the  sidewalk,  and,  within  doors,  benches  covered  with 
cheap  red  plush  run  around  the  room,  while  the  remain 
ing  floor  space  is  crowded  by  chairs  and  tables.  There  is 
always  a  certain  kind  of  merriment  in  progress  at  the 
Domperille  between  the  hours  of  eight  p.m.  and  three  a.m. 
Sometimes  it  consists  of  nothing  more  serious  than  eat 
ing,  drinking  and  singing,  with  more  drinking  than  either 
of  the  other  two.  Sometimes  it  is  made  up  of  enthusiastic 
fights  between  students  or  between  jealous  grisettes. 
Sometimes,  on  more  serious  occasions,  its  core  is  a  riot,  in 
which  the  students  combat  with  the  police.  Several  stu 
dents  have  been  killed  there  in  one  way  or  another,  and 
an  accurately  directed  earthen  match-safe,  sped  by  the 
powerful  arm  of  an  English  student,  neatly  cracked  the 
skull  of  an  obstreperous  gendarme  within  its  very  walls, 
not  many  years  ago.  The  students  and  the  police  are 
natural  and  sworn  enemies,  and  the  students  calmly  left 
the  officer  to  writhe  and  die  upon  the  sidewalk  while  they 
built  barricades  of  overturned  omnibuses  and  street  cars 
and  tore  up  the  paving  stones  to  use  as  ammunition  in  the 
£0Ln,mg  of  the  gendarme's  fellows.  Nowadays,  the  cars 
passing  the  Domperille  are  enormous  steam  double- 
deckers,  which  could  not  be  upset  without  an  hydraulic 
jack,  and  the  pavement  is  made  of  asphalt,  which  could- 
only  be  prepared  for  use  as  ammunition  with  pickaxes  to 
tear  it  up  with.  Thus  was  a  troublesome  spot  made  com 
paratively  peaceful  by  the  clever  French  police. 

There  was  little  that  was  exciting  this  night,  however, 
at  the  Cafe  Domperille.  The  Frenchman  pointed  out  to 
Fitzpatrick  and  Fitzpatrick  pointed  out  to  Murdoch  some 
of  the  most  interesting  and  well-known  characters  in  the 
crowd  at  the  tables,  both  inside  and  out.  There  were  men 
there  beyond  middle  life,  but  ."students"  still,  whose 
straight-brimmed  pot-hats  appearen  older  than  themselves 
and  whose  clothes  were  shabby  beyond  easy  description. 
There  were  boys  there,  roystering,  who  had  scarcely  passed 
their  teens.  Every  eccentric  costume  which  the  inventive 
mind  of  youths,  whose  pride  it  was  to  look  unusual,  could 


8  LIZETTE. 

devise  was  worn  by  the  men  and  so  much  regarded  as  the 
regular  thing  that  the  strange  garments  only  attracted 
notice  from  the  two  Americans.  One  or  two  of  the  stu 
dents  nodded  to  the  Frenchman,  and  one  of  them  knew 
Fitzpatrick.  Fitzpatrick,  by  the  time  he  saw  and  recog 
nized  this  student,  had  reached  the  mellow  stage  where 
he  begged  Murdoch  to  call  him  "Fitz."  He  beckoned  to 
the  student  whom  he  knew. 

"Come  here,  Kentucky/'  he  shouted  at  him  across  the 
tables. 

"Kentucky"  took  beer. 

While  he  drank  it,  Fitzpatrick,  with  a  movement  which 
was  almost  reverential,  lifted  the  student's  pot-hat  from 
his  head. 

"Murdoch,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  the  hat  across  the 
table,  "handle  this  as  carefully  as  you  would  the  ashes  of 
your  grandmother.  It's  a  work  of  art,  my  boy,  and  Ken- 
tuck's  only  claim  to  the  title  'artist.' " 

Kentucky  ordered  another  beer  and  drank  it  slowly  and 
without  a  smile.  He  did  not  shrink  from  the  recital  of 
his  story,  so  long  as  the  reciter  paid  the  cafe  checks. 

"Kentucky,"  Fitzpatrick  gossiped  on,  "came  here  with 
the  idea  that  he  was  to  be  a  second  Michael  Angelo  or 
Kubens.  Didn't  you,  Kentucky?" 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Kentucky,  contemplatively,  "that 
people  do  not  know  good  pictures  when  they  see  them, 
and  that  the  hanging  committees  are  jealous  of  really  good 
work.  I  am  more  than  forty  years  old  now,  and  have  been 
away  from  the  State  after  which  my  intimate  companions 
invariably  call  me,  more  than  half  of  my  life.  And, 
would  you  believe  it,  gentlemen,  those  idiotic  jurors  have 
never  hung  one  single  picture  of  mine  in  the  Salon!  Of 
course,  because  of  this,  not  one  of  them  has  been  pur 
chased  for  the  Luxembourg." 

"It's  jealousy,  Kentucky,"  said  Fitzpatrick,  gravely. 
"That's  what  it  is.  It  keeps  many  a  good  man  down. 
But  here,  Murdoch,  look  into  the  hat." 

It  had  once  been  covered  by  long,  fleecy  nap;  but  this 
had  worn  away  until  the  skin  showed  through  it  as  the 
hide  of  a  mangy  dog  shows  through  his  fur.  It  was  a 


THE  CAFE  DOMPERILLE.  9 

couple  of  inches  taller  than  the  silk  hat  of  to-day,  and  was 
a  trifle  smaller  at  the  top  than  it  was  where  it  joined  the 
brim.  The  brim  was  wide  and  projected  absolutely 
straight  around  the  bottom  of  the  hat.  As  Murdoch 
picked  it  up  it  felt  top-heavy.  He  looked  inside  and 
found  a  delicate  network  of  slender  pieces  of  wood  which 
held  the  hat  in  shape.  I  have  that  hat  in  my  possession 
now,  and  when  I  look  into  it,  it  reminds  me  of  the  iron 
beams  and  girders  which  I  have  seen  as  I  have  looked  up 
into  the  Eiffel  tower.  Each  little  stick  held  out  a  certain 
section  of  its  skin,  and  the  joinery  work  was  quite  as  per 
fect  as  that  of  the  most  accomplished  cabinet-maker. 

"How  long  have  you  had  that  hat?"  inquired  Fitz- 
patrick. 

"More  than  twenty  years,"  said  the  student,  solemnly. 
"For  as  long  a  time  as  that,  pure  envy  of  my  real  art  has 
prevented  me  from  buying  a  new  hat.  But  I  have  done 
all  that  I  could  to  make  this  one  last." 

Murdoch,  wondering,  handed  the  hat  back  to  him,  and 
said  that  the  latter  statement  seemed  to  him  to  be  quite 
true. 

Kentucky  took  another  beer  and  passed  out  into  the 
night,  the  Frenchman  going  also  a  few  moments  later. 

Sitting  on  a  bench  not  far  away  were  half  a  dozen  girls, 
who  had  eyed  Kentucky  enviously  while  he  had  enjoyed 
the  hospitality  of  the  hat  buyer.  They  were  dressed  with 
the  gaudy  good  taste  of  French  women  and,  because  they 
were  French,  knew  how  to  wear  their  clothes  in  a  manner 
which  made  cambric  seem  like  silk.  There  was  an  ap 
pearance  of  gay  elegance  about  them  and  an  air  of  great 
prosperity.  This  was  strangely  belied  when  they,  with 
much  argument  and  searching,  succeeded  in  combination 
in  making  up  a  purse  of  twelve  sous  for  the  purchase  of 
ecrivisse,  a  small  shellfish  somewhat  similar  to  shrimps. 
This  was  the  supper  for  the  six.  Presently  two  of  them, 
without  introduction  or  parley,  pulled  their  chairs  into 
the  space  made  vacant  by  Kentucky.  Murdoch,  of  course, 
could  not  tell  what  they  were  saying  to  Fitzpatrick,  but 
the  latter  seemed  to  be  much  pleased  by  their  attention, 
and  they  went  away  neither  hungry  nor  athirst. 


10  L1ZETTE. 

By  this  time  Fitzpatrick's  natural  geniality  of  temper 
ament  and  a  strange  mixture  of  French  intoxicants  had 
exhilarated  him  to  the  point  where  he  called  Murdoch 
"Murdy." 

Finally  he  rose,  stretched,  looked  at  his  watch,  remarked 
that  it  was  one  o'clock,  that  he  had  an  appointment  to 
play  billiards  at  the  Grand  Hotel  at  one-fifteen,  which  he 
could  scarcely  make,  and  must  go. 

"Do  you  want  to  come  along,  Murdy,"  he  said,  some 
what  thickly,  "or  doxyou  want  to  stay  awhile?  It  gets 
livelier  later.  I'd  stay  if  I  were  you." 

Murdoch  stayed.  Within  ten  minutes  he  was  sorry. 
All  that  night  life,  which  had  been  so  interesting  to  him 
while  the  genial  hat  buyer  had  been  there  to  explain  it, 
became  unintelligible  again,  and  his  loneliness  increased. 
Young  fellows  at  the  tables,  some  of  them  obviously  rich 
and  some  as  obviously  poor,  were  all  happy.  No  one  paid 
the  least  attention  to  him,  except,  occasionally,  some 
thirsty  girl,  who  unhesitatingly  asked  him  to  buy  a  beer 
for  her.  Everything  seemed  unreal  and  unnatural.  The 
fellows  were  not  the  kind  of  chaps  whom  he  had  known 
in  college.  The  girls,  curiously,  seemed  neither  brazen 
nor  modest.  There  was  a  certain  apparent  innocence  even 
about  their  evident  viciousness.  If  one  of  them  raised 
her  skirts  and  danced  upon  a  table,  she  did  it,  not  wick 
edly,  but  because  she  felt  the  need  of  some  easy  way  of 
showing  to  her  friends  that  she  was  merry.  High  kick 
ing  had  an  unusual  charm  in  its  complete  unconscious 
ness  of  impropriety.  Such  exhibitions  were  merely  trials 
of  skill  and  limberness.  They  attracted. small  attention. 
Not  a  person  there  was  tipsy.  The  French  dilute  their 
drinks  and  do  not  habitually  get  drunk. 

Sitting  in  the  bright  glare  of  the  gas  lamps  on  the  side 
walk  was  a  young  fellow,  evidently  an  East  Indian.  He 
was  carefully  dressed  and  apparently  had  plenty  of  money. 
His  companion  was  a  pretty  girl  of  about  twenty,  who 
seemed  to  be  extremely  proud  of  him.  Other  girls,  as  they 
passed,  threw  out  little  jokes  at  her,  which  were  answered 
with  defiant  nods  and  shakes  of  her  pretty  head;  but  her 
elation  changed  to  watchful  gravity  when  another  girl, 


THE  CAFE"  DOMPERILLE.  13 

slightly  disheveled,  pushed  through  the  crowd  to  her  and 
said,  in  a  voice  tremulous  from  anger,  something  which 
Murdoch  knew  must  mean,  "I  want  to  see  you — you — 
you — you!" 

The  girl,  after  whispering  to  her  companion,  rose  from 
the  table  with  a  forced  smile,  and  went  away  with  the 
woman  who  had  called  to  her.  Murdoch  turned  again  to 
watch  the  others  at  the  tables  on  the  sidewalk.  They  were 
all  enjoying  life  after  their  own  fashion  and  he  thought 
that  it  was  a  strange  fashion.  Suddenly  a  girl  jumped  up 
and  cried: 

"Oh,  la  la!    Louise!    Louise!" 

There  was  a  rush  to  the  side  street.  Murdoch  joined  it 
just  in  time  to  be  one  of  a  hundred  spectators  who  involun 
tarily  formed  a  ring  around  the  two  women  who  had  left 
the  table  a  moment  before.  They  were  half  standing,  half 
crouching,  with  blazing  eyes  and  flying  hair,  eying  each 
other  like  enraged  animals.  In  a  second  they  were  at  it 
and  fighting  hard.  They  followed  no  rules,  observed  no 
scheme  of  rounds  and  breathing  spells;  but  simply  fought 
with  fists  and  finger  nails,  with  feet  and  teeth.  The  ring 
around  the  combatants  was  made  up  mostly  of  men.  Mur 
doch  saw  with  surprise  that  many  of  them  bore  upon  their 
shoulders  women,  who  were  anxious  to  see  the  fight  and 
had  climbed  up  to  get  a  better  view  than  was  possible  in 
the  surging  crowd  upon  the  ground.  "While  he  was  watch 
ing  this  strange  night  spectacle  in  his  first  astonishment  a 
pair  of  feminine  arms  clasped  him  about  the  neck  and  a 
soft  voice  murmured  "Pardon,  M'sieu."  In  a  few  seconds 
more  Murdoch  was,  himself,  the  enforced  vantage  point 
from  which  a  girl  of  the  Latin  Quarter  watched  the 
struggle. 

When  it  had  ended,  the  girl  slipped  lightly  to  the 
ground  and  politely  thanked  him.  As  he  went  over  to  his 
table  again  she  followed  him  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
course — as  if  their  introduction  had  been  quite  sufficient. 
When  he  sat  down,  she  sat  down  also.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  saw  her  face  plainly.  It  was  a  pretty  little  face. 
She  was  not  more  than  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age. 
She  was  more  plainly  dressed  than  any  other  in  the  caf6 


12  LIZETTE. 

and,  somehow  or  other,  seemed  to  him  to  be  better  form 
than  any  of  the  rest.  There  was  a  refinement  and  a  pleas 
ing  delicacy  about  her  which  was  indescribable.  There 
were  no  lines  of  dissipation  in  her  face,  nor  was  there  any 
rouge  on  it.  She  had  the  air  of  doing  the  only  thing  there 
was  to  do.  It  did  not  seem  bold  for  her  to  come  and  sit 
by  him,  which  surprised  him.  He  reflected  that  it  must  be 
the  way  in  which  she  did  it.  Almost  in  a  moment  she  dis 
covered  that  he  was  an  American,  and  there  was  something 
infinitely  pretty  in  the  way  she  smiled,  nodded  her  well 
shaped  head  and  said: 

"Vous  ete  un  Americain?" 

There  was  a  query  in  her  voice,  and  Murdoch  under 
stood  exactly  what  she  said,  as  anybody  would  have. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  American/' 

"Yais,"  she  said,  "Un  Americain.  I  spik  Engleese  one 
leetle — one  vairy  leetle." 

Murdoch  was  delighted,  but  had  he  known  how  really 
little  that  "vairy  leetle"  was,  his  joy  would  have  been  tem 
pered.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  bright  fascination  of  her 
animated  face  and  the  sweet  naivete"  of  her  efforts  to  make 
him  understand  her,  he  would  have  relapsed  into  dull 
lonesomeness  again,  and  regarded  her  as  another  of  the 
unnatural  persons  who  formed  the  unreal  crowd  around 
him.  But  there  was  the  delicately  charming  fascination. 
He  sat  and  watched  her  across  the  small,  round  table  for 
another  hour  while  she  drank  black  coffee  and  ate  ecrivisse 
and  small  sweet  cakes.  He  watched  her  eyes,  which  were 
especially  refined  and  vivacious;  he  watched  the  pretty 
curves  of  her  delicate  lips  while  she  tried  to  form  them  so 
as  to  copy  the  strange  sounds  of  his  English  words;  he 
watched  the  flashing  dimples  in  her  rosy  cheeks  as  she 
laughed  merrily  at  his  absurd  attempts  to  imitate  her  own 
quick  French.  The  sleepy  waiter  put  some  of  the  lights 
out.  The  outside  tables  were  taken  in.  Almost  everyone 
had  gone  when  he  reluctantly  arose. 

"Vair  ees  eet  zat  you  go?    Yais,  vair  ees  eet?"  she  asked. 

"I  go  home,"  said  Murdoch,  yielding  to  that  absurd 
inclination  to  speak  "broken  English,"  which  we  all  have 
when  talking  to  a  foreigner. 


THE  CAFE  DOMPERILLE.  13 

She  answered  daintily,  with  a  movement  of  calm  and 
satisfied  contentment,  impossible  to  describe.  She  linked 
her  arm  in  his  and  said  sweetly,  in  a  way  that  finally  set 
tled  the  matter: 

"Yais?    I  go,  too." 

And  this  was  the  beginning  of  John  Murdoch's  life  in 
Paris. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  DUCKING  IN  THE  SEINE. 

He  found  a  studio  and  two  large  rooms,  overlooking 
the  charming  old  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  John  Mur 
doch  will  never  forget  the  green  of  those  swaying  trees  in 
the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  nor  the  twittering  of  the 
birds  in  them,  nor  the  faint  uprising  shouts  of  the  chil 
dren  at  play  there  when  the  sun  shone,  nor  the  high  com 
fort  of  feeling  himself  in  his  own  home,  when  the  rain 
came  down  upon  them  or  the  fog  rose  upward  from  them. 
He  used  to  sit  at  a  window  on  stormy  days  and  thank  his 
good  luck  that  the  sun  did  not  always  shine  out  of  doors. 
It  always  shone  indoors,  and  Lizette — dainty,  bewitching, 
devoted — was  the  sun. 

Six  mornings  of  the  week  at  five  o'clock,  she  gently 
shook  him  and  bade  him  dress  for  work.  On  a  little  table 
in  the  studio  were  his  coffee  and  his  rolls,  waiting  for 
him.  He  no  longer  yearned  for  the  American  breakfast. 
He  ate  what  she  gave  him  hastily,  while  she  chattered 
gaily,  unless  she  stopped  and  pretended  to  pucker  up  her 
forehead  in  a  great  scowl,  because  he  ate  so  rapidly. 

"Of  a  certainty  it  is,"  she  would  say,  "that  some  day  you 
will  choke  until  you  die.  Be  not  af-raid.  The  rolls  are 
of  the  good  ones.  They  will  not  taste  so  ver*  ter-m-ble, 
if  you  eat  them  with  the  slowness.  You  are  like  Us 
p'tites  oiseaux  over  in  the  trees  in  the  Gardens  of  the 
Luxembourg.  When  their  leetle  maman  takes  to  them 
the  worm — the  g-r-e-a-t  b-e-e-g  wo-r-r-r-m — les  p'tites 
oiseaux  eat  it  so  much  in  the  haste  that  there  can  be  no 
happiness  at  all  for  the  poor  maman  oiseau.  She  mus' 
sit  upon  the  nest's  outside,  an'  wonder  if  les  p'tites  oiseaux 
will  die  of  it.  An'  so  it  is  wiz  you.  You  devour  the  roll 


A  DUCKING  IN  THE  SEINE.  15 

an'  coffee  with  such  great  haste  that  I  sit  by  an'  have  the 
worry  in  the  heart  of  me,  for  fear  that  I  shall  soon  be  all 
alone  because  you  will  go  dead  of  it.  Go  dead  of  it!" 

And,  having  delivered  herself  of  the  tale  of  this  great 
worry,  Lizette  would  flit  about  busily  on  the  affairs  of  his 
first  breakfast,  stopping  now  and  then  to  watch  him  eat,  so 
that  she  might  be  sure  that  he  was  obeying  her  and  not 
tempting  the  fate  which  she  predicted  for  the  small  birds 
in  the  nests  across  the  way.  She  was  most  delightful  at 
those  early  morning  breakfasts,  as  she  attended  to  him 
and  worried  over  him.  John  Murdoch  will  never  forget 
that  little  figure  in  its  patten  slippers  and  its  loose  wrap 
per  of  rich  red.  Lizette  always  wore  gowns  of  this  rich  red 
within  doors.  She  made  most  merry  about  her  long  black 
hair.  It  so  often  came  down  in  the  mornings — that  black 
hair!  Sometimes  as  she  stood  behind  him,  watching  to 
see  that  he  did  not  do  as  the  greedy  little  birds  did,  it 
would  come  down  and  fall  around  his  shoulders.  It  was 
never  taken  away  by  hands  alone.  It  always  needed  both 
her  arms  to  gather  it  again.  Such  hugs  those  were  that 
Lizette  gave  him  when  her  hair  came  down! 

In  the  early  days  of  their  life  together  she  had  one 
cause  for  worry  of  which  she  did  not  speak,  for  the  fear 
was  in  her  heart  that  he  might  feel  resentment  if  she  did. 
She  had  heard  great  tales  of  the  hazing  which  students 
were  sometimes  put  through  at  the  schools.  Always  in 
the  past  she  had  heard  these  stories  with  small  laughs  of 
keen  amusement,  for  she  had  not  cared  about  the  men 
who  suffered  the  mild  tortures  devised  for  nouveaux  by  the 
older  students.  But  now  she  lived  in  fear  that  Murdoch 
would  meet  some  such  indignity.  There  was  a  tale  told 
in  the  Quarter  of  a  student  who  had  been  driven  mad  by 
masked  fellows  from  the  Beaux  Arts,  who  went  to  his 
studio  at  night  and  nearly  killed  him  physically  in  divers 
ways,  and  added  to  their  sin  by  working  so  upon  his 
emotions  in  the  guise  of  evil  spirits  that  he  was  taken 
away  from  Paris  by  friends  and  placed  in  an  asylum. 

But  time  passed  and,  although  Murdoch  told  her  of 
other  fellows  who  had  been  dealt  with  by  the  merry 
makers  with  some  roughness,  he  was  not  molested  and 


16  LIZETTE. 

her  heart's  load  was  lightened.  Shortly  afterward,  an 
episode  brought  her  complete  relief  from  worry  on  this 
score.  They  had  walked,  slowly,  after  dinner,  away  out 
the  Boulevard,  until  they  had  actually  reached  the  place 
where  grass  grows  and  all  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  not 
blocked  by  buildings.  It  was  a  surprise  to  her.  She  had 
never  been  out  that  way  before,  and  she  enjoyed  every 
moment  among  the  green  and  pleasant  things  they  found 
there.  She  was  so  merry  in  the  gathering  dusk  that,  as 
they  were  passing  through  a  field,  she  ran  ahead  a  little 
and  made  a  tiny  leap  across  a  narrow  runway.  Her  ankle 
turned  "beneath  her  on  the  other  side  and  she  sank  to  the 
ground  with  a  small  cry,  and  really  in  great  pain.  Mur 
doch,  all  tenderness,  picked  her  up,  after  he  had  found 
that  her  ankle  was  sprained,  and  carried  her  a  full  mile, 
partly  through  the  fields  and  partly  through  the  sparsely 
settled  outlying  streets,  until  he  found  a  cab  which  would 
take  them  to  a  surgeon's.  There  was  such  solidity  in  the 
arms  that  held  her,  such  untiring  ability  to  stride  along 
under  a  heavy  burden  in  the  man  who  carried  her,  that  she 
was  greatly  impressed  by  it,  and  in  a  moment  of  freedom 
from  pain,  or  else  while  she  was  bravely  forcing  back  com 
plaining  exclamations,  she  remarked  triumphantly  that  if 
they  attempted  to  haze  him — her  strong  one — they  would 
find  trouble  and  not  pleasure  for  themselves.  She  did 
not  fear  the  hazing  after  that.  Murdoch,  too,  who  had 
expected  it  and  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  it, 
when  it  came,  as  good  naturedly  as  possible,  began  to  feel 
that  what  was  so  long  delayed  was  unlikely  to  come  at  all, 
and  forgot  about  the  matter. 

His  life  fell  into  a  routine  of  hard  work.  No  other 
student  in  the  Quarter  toiled  more  faithfully  or  more  in 
telligently.  While  daylight  lasted  he  worked  with  ever 
increasing  skill  with  his  brushes  and  his  canvas.  When 
night  came  it  was  Lizette's  great  happiness  to  curl  herself 
on  a  rug  beside  him  and  read  the  American  stories  which 
he  had  taught  her  how  to  understand,  even  as  she  had 
worked  at  teaching  him  to  speak  good  French,  while  he 
toiled  steadily  with  charcoal  and  with  black  and  white 
oils.  Only  when  he  was  at  his  classes  were  they  separated. 


A  DUCKING  IN  THE  SEINE.  17 

But  one  night  he  did  not  return  to  the  studio  at  the 
usual  hour.  There  was  in  the  class  with  Murdoch  a 
young  Frenchman  whose  unpopularity  was  great.  He  was 
a  tall,  thin  person,  with  deep-set  eyes  and  thin  lips,  which 
were  pressed  into  a  tight  straight  line  whenever  the  master 
criticised  his  work,  or  when  any  of  the  other  students 
attempted  to  make  merry  with  him.  It  was  known  in  the 
school  that  he  had  started  to  study  for  the  priesthood,  but 
had  been  dismissed  from  the  institution  in  which  he  was 
studying  because  of  his  ungovernable  temper.  The  Paris 
art  student  is  not  noted  above  other  human  animals  for 
his  reverence,  and  the  classmates  of  the  young  man  called 
him  by  a  name  which  indicated  him  as  a  backslider.  He  did 
not  like  it,  but  there  were  so  many  of  the  offenders  that 
he  made  what  pretense  he  could  of  taking  it  good- 
naturedly.  The  pretense  was  unsuccessful,  many  times, 
which  perhaps  egged  the  other  students  on.  He  had 
practically  no  friends.  This  isolation  among  the  other 
students  angered  him.  There  was  really  no  design  or 
concerted  action  in  it.  He  had  brought  it  on  himself  by 
his  bitterness  of  tongue  and  poor  concealment  of  an  outra 
geous  temper.  But  it  made  him  hate  the  men  who  could 
make  friends,  and  Murdoch,  in  a  way,  was  popular. 

There  is  gossip  among  art  students,  as  there  is  gossip 
wherever  human  beings  are  gathered  into  groups,  and  the 
gossip  about  this  student  was  that  he  was  supported  and 
his  school  expenses  paid  by  an  old  woman  who  sold  coals 
in  the  Quarter,  and  who  had  a  small  shop  just  off  the 
Boulevard.  The  student  said  he  <rboarded"  with  her  and 
even  spoke  of  her  with  great  contempt,  but  the  gossip 
went  that  she  supported  him  and  paid  his  way,  and  that 
there  were  certain  reasons  for  her  doing  so,  not  altogether 
unconnected  with  maternal  feelings.  The  old  .woman 
who  sold  coals  was  popular  among  the  students  (she  freely 
extended  credit),  and  all  spoke  of  her  as  "Madame," 
although  no  one  knew  Monsieur.  There  was  a  tradition 
in  the  Quarter  that  once  she  had  been  very  beautiful  and 
shapely,  and  that  then  she  had  not  sold  coals,  but  had 
posed  for  the  schools  and  afterwards  exclusively  for  a  cer 
tain  artist,  who  had  since  then  gone  to  England  to  win 


18  LIZETTE. 

fame  and  fortune,  leaving  the  model  to  make  her  way  as 
best  she  could  without  his  help  or  his  protection,  but  with 
a  child  who  had  given  up  the  priesthood  for  the  rocky 
road  of  art.  When  they  were  seen  together  jn  the  shop, 
the  old  woman  always  treated  the  student,  who  said  he 
was  her  lodger,  with  the  greatest  deference  and  respect  as 
it  was  befitting  that  she  should  treat  her  only  "boarder," 
but  sometimes  she  had  bruises  on  her  face,  which  to  her 
customers  indicated  beatings.  Once  after  she  had  been 
seen  in  her  shop  with  an  especially  scarred  and  unwhole 
some  looking  visage,  the  student  appeared  at  the  school 
with  a  hand  well  bandaged.  The  word  passed  round  that 
the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  had  for  once  given  to  her 
son  some  measure  of  return  for  his  abuse.  This  belief 
among  the  students  that  the  ex-theolog  had  struck  a 
woman  had  not  added  to  his  popularity. 

All  this  leads  up  to  the  explanation  of  John  Murdoch's 
tardiness  in  his  arrival  at  the  studio  where  Lizette  was 
waiting  for  him  that  night  of  which  I  have  spoken.  He 
had  stopped  in  at  the  shop  of  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals,  to  speak  to  her  about  the  supply  at  the  studio,  and 
happened  to  reach  there  just  as  the  young  student,  who 
did  such  honor  to  her  by  lodging  in  the  room  over  her 
shop,  was  taking  the  privilege,  a  strange  one  for  a  lodger, 
of  demanding  money  from  her.  The  two  were  in  the 
room  back  of  the  shop,  but  the  door  was  open,  and  while 
Murdoch  could  not  see  them,  he  could  hear  them  plainly. 

The  crisis  came  when  he  heard  the  old  woman  tell  the 
student  that  she  had  no  money  and  beg  him  not  to  strike 
her,  a  plea  which  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  blows  and 
of  a  fall.  The  old  woman  did  not  cry  out,  but  continued 
to  plead  for  mercy  piteously  in  a  muffled  voice.  Murdoch 
thought  that  the  indistinctness  of  her  tones  might  be 
caused  by  fingers  on  her  throat,  and  so  he  entered.  He 
saw  at  once  that  he  had  been  wrong  in  thinking  that  the 
student  was  choking  the  old  woman.  Her  indistinctness 
of  speech  had  not  come  from  that.  It  was  caused  by 
blood  and  some  loosened  teeth  within  her  mouth,  for  the 
student  had  struck  her  brutally. 

Murdoch  did  not  strike  him.     He  merely  grasped  him 


A  DUCKING  IN  THE  SEINE.  19 

with  a  wrestler's  tackle  which  he  knew  and  bore  him  out 
of  the  back  door  of  the  shop  to  the  side  street.  Then,  ad 
justing  the  astonished  student  so  that  he  could  be  carried 
with  complete  ease  on  his  brawny  back,  Murdoch  hurried 
through  the  dusk  with  him  to  the  river.  An  inclined 
roadway  runs  from  the  level  of  the  street  there,  down  to 
some  baths  which  are  anchored  to  the  river's  bank,  and 
down  this  Murdoch  sped,  with  the  raging,  but  powerless 
student  on  his  back.  There  were  a  number  of  gamins  in 
their  wake  by  the  time  they  reached  this  interesting  spot, 
and,  in  the  distance,  Murdoch  could  hear  the  labored  pro 
tests  of  the  old  woman,  who  ran  stumbling  after  them, 
breathing  so  hard  and  with  her  mouth  so  full  of  blood  and 
loosened  teeth  that  she  could  scarcely  make  articulate 
sound.  He  was  well  out  on  the  planks  by  the  time  she 
came  up  with  him  and  had  ducked  the  student  once,  with 
great  solemnity  and  in  complete  silence  on  his  own  part, 
b-ut  amid  much  sputtering  from  the  helpless  student  and 
many  shrill  cries  of  delight  and  approval  from  the  gamins. 
She  begged  him  to  let  the  student  go,  and  tried  to  say 
that  she  had  given  him  great  provocation  and  that  he  was 
not  at  all  at  fault.  The  student  himself  was  swearing 
with  what  breath  his  short  stay  under  water  and  his  great 
efforts  to  loosen  Murdoch's  iron  hold  had  left  in  him,  and 
was  vowing  incoherent  vengeance. 

Murdoch  slowly  and  with  system  ducked  him  again. 
This  time,  when  he  came  up,  spluttering,  he  stopped 
swearing  at  Murdoch  and  begged  to  be  released.  But  at 
the  same  time  he  vowed  vengeance  on  the  old  woman  who 
had  been  the  cause  of  it  all.  This  failed  to  satisfy  the 
strong  one  from  America.  Murdoch  explained  to  the 
dripping  victim  that  striking  women  was  considered  the 
worst  sort  of  manners  in  his  native  land,  and  added  that 
threats  against  the  sex  were  also  impolite.  Then  he 
thrust  the  student  under  water  once  again.  The  man 
showed  the  weakening  effects  of  this  treatment  when  Mur 
doch  yanked  him  out.  His  words  came  with  great  diffi 
culty  and  they  were  conciliatory  words.  Murdoch  sug 
gested  to  him  that  he  might  avoid  further  immersion  in 
the  waters  of  the  Seine  by  apologizing  to  the  old  woman, 


30  LIZETTE. 

and  promising  that  he  would  not  offend  again.  To  this 
proposal  he  demurred.  Then  Murdoch  called  upon  old 
Father  Seine  to  help  him  in  his  argument  again,  and  when 
he  pulled  the  student  out  upon  the  planks  he  was  quite 
limp  and  subdued. 

In  the  presence  of  the  admiring  and  interested  gamins 
and  amid  the  protesting  sobs  of  the  old  woman,  who 
seemed  most  anxious  that  no  further  punishment  should 
be  inflicted  on  her  lodger,  the  latter  chokingly  admitted 
that  he  had  done  her  wrong  and  now  regretted  it.  Mur 
doch  thought  that  perhaps  the  apology  might  be  more 
effective  if  it  were  delivered  while  the  student  knelt.  The 
student  rebelled  at  this  humiliation  and  was  ducked  again. 
This  time  Murdoch  held  him  under  until,  when  he  was 
hauled  limply  out,  he  could  not  stand  without  the  strong 
support  of  Murdoch's  hand  which  grasped  his  collar.  When 
Murdoch  released  his  hold  the  student  sank  to  his  knees 
quite  as  much  from  weakness  as  from  humility  and,  while 
Murdoch  stood  over  him  ready  and  resolved  to  further  im 
merse  him  if  he  did  not  obey  orders,  poured  out  an  apology 
of  sickening  humiliation  amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  gamins 
and  the  old  woman's  choking  sobs. 

Just  as  Murdoch  turned  away,  feeling  certain  that  the 
student  would  not  further  assault  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals,  for  that  night  at  least  (there  was  a  reason  in  his 
evident  exhaustion  from  the  struggle  as  well  as  in  the 
promise  which  Murdoch  forced  from  him  to  sin  no  more), 
a  gamin,  running  up,  handed  a  little  dagger  to  him,  and 
told  him  that  it  had  been  dropped  during  the  progress  to 
the  Seine.  Another  called  attention  to  the  fact  that 
blood  was  oozing  from  his  trouser  leg.  Then  Murdoch 
discovered  what  had  been  the  cause  of  a  sharp  sting  which 
he  had  felt  in  his  hip  while  he  was  bearing  the  student 
Seine-ward.  The  man  had  had  a  knife  and  had  cut  him 
slightly  in  the  hip,  but  dropped  the  weapon  in  his  excite 
ment,  before  he  had  had  further  chance  to  use  it.  With 
this  discovery  he  turned  and  went  back  to  the  cringing 
student,  who  whimpered  as  he  went  to  him  and  would 
have  run  away  if  there  had  been  strength  enough  for  run 
ning  in  his  legs,  and  ducked  him  once  again. 


A  DUCKING  IN  THE  SEINE.  21 

"That,  my  dear  child,"  Murdoch  explained  as  he 
brought  the  thoroughly  subdued  student,  limp  and  sput 
tering  from  the  water,  "is  for  using  knives.  It  is  a 
silly  practice.  Don't  do  it  any  more.  Especially,  don't 
do  it  to  Americans." 

Then  he  went  his  way  and  left  the  old  woman  and  the 
student  there  upon  the  planks  together.  The  old  woman 
was  exhausted  by  the  varying  emotions  which  quarreled 
in  her  breast,  among  which  admiration  for  the  young 
American  strove  with  horror  at  the  fact  that  the  one  she 
idolized  had  been  the  victim  of  his  strength. 

On  the  way  home  to  the  studio,  Murdoch  stopped  and 
had  the  small  wound  bandaged.  He  decided  that  he 
would  not  tell  Lizette  about  the  encounter,  but  it  had 
left  such  marks  of  pallor  and  dishevelment  upon  him  that 
he  had  to  tell  her  something  of  it,  and,  although  he  tried 
to  make  the  telling  funny,  and  did  not  mention  to  her 
who  his  victim  was,  her  face  was  white  and  strained  when 
he  had  finished,  and  she  went  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  trembled  with  a  woman's  fear  of 
dangers  that  are  passed,  while  she  rejoiced  again  in  the 
glory  of  his  strength. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  ARTISTIC  HAZING. 

Although  John  Murdoch  never  spoke  of  the  incident  to 
any  student,  the  news  of  it  was  noised  abroad.  It  had 
two  effects.  In  the  first  place  it  added  greatly  to  the  un 
popularity  of  the  immersed  one,  and  his  life  became  even 
more  isolated  and  uncomfortable  than  it  had  been  before, 
which  is  saying  much.  In  the  second  place,  it  made  John 
Murdoch  a  much  respected  man,  and  it  started -great  tales 
about  his  muscle.  Some  of  these  he  heard  and  they 
amused  him.  They  were  wildly  exaggerated  and  included 
vivid  details  of  feats  which  might  have  put  Sampson  to 
the  blush.  This  probably  had  much  to  do  with  the  mild 
form  which  his  hazing  took,  when  at  last  it  came.  An 
overwhelming  number  of  his  fellow  students  seized  him 
one  early  morning  before  the  masters  came  and  bound 
him  tightly  to  a  chair  back.  Then  they  removed  his 
shoes  and  placed  his  bare  feet  so  that  the  bottoms  of  them 
were  near  enough  to  the  great  stove  in  the  atelier  to  make 
him  wonder  just  when  they  would  begin  to  burn. 

A  meeting  was  held,  to  whose  deliberations  he  must 
listen  quietly,  which  had  for  its  object  a  discussion  of  what 
other  things  should  be  done  to  him  by  his  fellows.  Wild 
and  uncanny  were  the  plans  suggested.  Blood  curdling 
proceedings  were  talked  over  in  his  hearing  with  studied 
gravity.  It  was  finally  decided  that  his  feet  should  be 
well  roasted  first.  Then  the  plans  were  that  he  should  be 
stripped  and  painted  red.  He  came,  the  spokesman 
argued,  from  the  land  where  Indians  flourished  toma 
hawks  and  scalped  helpless  ones.  Therefore  he  was  an 
Indian,  and  for  him  to  go  about  Paris  not  garbed  as  one 
was  for  him  to  travel  under  false  pretenses. 


AN  ARTISTIC  HAZING.  23 

In  the  execution  of  the  plan  Murdoch  was  not  stripped, 
but  his  face  and  neck  and  hands  were  most  terrifyingly 
striped  and  made  hideous  with  red  paint.  In  his  hair 
were  tied  the  feathers  from  a  duster,  and  then  about  his 
prostrate  form  the  others  danced  in  glee,  with  strange 
imitations  of  the  famous  war-whoop,  and  dabbing  him  in 
spots  with  long  mawl  sticks  freshly  dipped  in  paint.  The 
young  student  whom  Murdoch  had  doused  so  effectively 
in  the  waters  of  the  Seine  was  present,  and  his  small,  keen 
eyes  sparkled  with  malicious  glee  when  the  fun  first 
started.  He  evidently  hoped  that  Murdoch  would  resist 
and  that  it  would  end  in  his  being  roughly  handled,  as 
very  often  happened  when  students  made  too  strong  resist 
ance  to  the  will  of  the  majority.  While  the  fun  was  at 
its  highest  and  the  dancing  and  the  yelling  were  most 
demoniacal,  this  student  worked  around  until  he  got  in  the 
rear  of  Murdoch,  where  the  prostrate  one  could  not  see  him. 

Then,  with  a  smile  in  which  the  eagerness  of  cow 
ardly  hatred  was  too  thinly  masked  to  be  obscured  from 
the  others,  he  slyly  made  a  move  as  if  to  kick  the  top  of 
Murdoch's  head.  This  called  down  on  him  the  disgusted 
wrath  of  the  whole  room  and  he  went  shamefacedly  away. 
It  also  stopped  the  fun  for  a  few  moments,  but  youth  for 
gets  quickly,  and  the  others  soon  renewed  the  mild  torture 
of  Murdoch  with  paint  and  mawl  sticks.  Finally  he  was 
forced  (with  proper  hesitation  on  his  part)  to  take  an  oath 
that  if  he  was  released  he  would  purchase  divers  drinks 
and  delicacies  for  the  entire  class  when  the  day's  work 
should  be  finished,  and  he  was  also  required  to  promise 
that  he  would  make  no  effort  to  remove  his  decorations 
until  he  reached  his  home  that  night. 

To  these  things  Murdoch  agreed  after  keeping  the  fun 
(which  he  enjoyed  as  much  as  anybody)  going  as  long  as 
its  somewhat  hysterical  nature  made  agreeable  to  the  par 
ticipants.  It  wound  up  with  a  trial  of  Murdoch's 
strength,  which  satisfied  and  surprised  the  other  students 
and  made  them  add  to  the  penalty  he  must  pay  for  living 
on  the  earth  and  studying  art  in  Paris,  the  further  task  of 
bearing  through  the  streets  for  a  prescribed  distance,  the 
fattest  student  in  the  class.  In  case  he  failed  to  agree  to 


24  LIZETTE. 

this,  other  penalties  were  to  be  imposed.  But  he  con 
sented. 

And  so  it  was  that  when  Murdoch  returned  to  his  studio 
and  Lizette  that  night,  he  was  most  picturesquely  deco 
rated,  and  there  sat  astride  his  neck  a  student,  who,  if  his 
art  ability  had  been  in  ratio  with  his  weight,  would  have 
been  a  very  Michael  Angelo.  Murdoch's  hat  was  worn 
over  another  by  that  member  of  the  class  who  had  the 
smallest  head,  and  his  coat  had  been  turned  inside  out  and, 
with  sleeve  linings  of  bright  stripes,  added  to  the  interest 
of  his  appearance.  Two  students  with  tin  horns  made 
hideous  noises  at  his  sides,  and  just  behind  him  marched 
an  orchestra  whose  instruments  were  made  of  combs  and 
tissue  paper. 

Lizette  heard  the  tumult  from  above,  and  watched  it 
from  a  window  of  the  studio.  She  greeted  Murdoch  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  with  the  almost  hysteric  fondness 
of  a  mother  hen  who  cuddles  a  small  chicken  which  has 
escaped  from  deadly  peril. 

With  difficulty  she  washed  the  paint — which  had  had 
hours  to  dry  in — from  his  face,  stopping  now  to  hug  him 
with  congratulations  that  his  trials  had  been  no  worse, 
now  to  burst  into  long  trills  of  laughter  over  the  extraor 
dinary  appearance  which  he  presented. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  work  entirely.  Then,  to  Mur 
doch's  great  surprise,  she  hurried  from  the  tiny  kitchen, 
where  she  had  been  conducting  her  scrubbing  operations, 
to  the  studio,  and  returned  with  paints  and  brushes.  He 
did  not  understand  at  first,  and  was  too  much  amazed  to 
speak  when  she  gravely  began  to  restore,  with  tender 
touches  on  his  face,  the  paint  which  she  had  just  suc 
ceeded  in  scrubbing  off. 

"Hold  on/'  said  Murdoch,  in  amazement.  "Are  you 
going  to  haze  me  too?  I  had  supposed  that  I  was  safe 
when  I  reached  the  studio  and  you." 

<r5Tou  are — most  safe  wiz  me/'  she  said.  "I  shall  not 
do  to  you  ze  one  sm-a-a-11  hurt.  But  we  forget.  M'sieu 
Kaintucky  have  not  seen  you  as  you  were.  It  is  not  fair 
to  heem.  I  mus'  paint  you  all  up  wiz  ze  niceness  once 
a^-ain,  and  zcn  go  an'  fetch  heem  to  look  upon  ze  so  vairy 


AN  ARTISTIC  HAZING.  25 

funny  sight.  To  spoil  all  ze  beauteousness  of  you  before 
he  see  it  would  not  of  ze  kindness  be.  One  leetle,  leetle 
moment.  Zen  I  have  you  fix.  Zen  I  go  to  fetch  heem. 
Zen  I  wash  you  off  some  more — an'  it  ees  ovaire.  But  of 
a  certainty  he  mus'  see  you.  Such  is  but  right." 

So,  having  painted  with  tender  carefulness  for  eyes  and 
mouth,  for  a  time  upon  the  docile  Murdoch's  face  and 
arms,  adding  a  few  deft  and  disfiguring  touches  to  his 
ears  and  nose  which  even  the  students,  in  their  riotous 
ingenuity,  had  not  thought  of,  she  left  him,  all  sticky  with 
the  paint,  but  wonderingly  and  wonderfully  meek  and 
quiet,  and  started  out  to  get  Kentucky.  It  was  like  Lizette 
to  think  of  him.  She  liked  him,  and  of  a  certainty  Mur 
doch  was  most  funny.  The  whole  Quarter  had  had  joy 
from  him.  It  did  not  hurt  him  to  afford  this  joy.  Ken 
tucky  had  not  seen  him.  That  was  unjust  and  must  be 
rectified. 

Murdoch  gazed  after  her,  as  she  departed,  with  open 
mouth  and  wondering  eyes.  She  had  new  surprises  for 
him  every  day,  and  he  had  often  thought  and  marvelled  at 
her  watchful  care  for  others.  But  this  development!  He 
finally  decided  that  it,  too,  was  delightful.  He  determined 
also  to  make  the  old  student's  surprise  and  pleasure  as 
complete  as  possible,  and,  incidentally,  to  further  interest 
Lizette. 

He  quickly  made  a  pair  of  trunks  by  cutting  the  legs 
off  an  ancient  pair  of  trousers,  and  smeared  his  bare  legs 
and  arms  and  body  with  as  much  paint  as  he  could  get  on 
in  a  hurry.  His  legs  were  hairy,  and  he  reflected  that  the 
coloring  would  come  off  with  difficulty,  but  that  only  made 
him  lay  it  on  the  thicker.  So  when  Kentucky  and  Lizette 
came  up  the  stairway,  they  were  confronted  by  a  sight 
much  more  terrifying  than  tne  one  which  Lizette  had, 
with  fond  thoughtfulness,  decided  that  the  ancient  student 
should  not  miss.  As  Murdoch  heard  them  coming  up  the 
stairs  he  grasped  a  carving  knife  and  jumped  out  upon 
the  landing  with  it  brandished  in  his  hand.  Also  he 
emitted  yells.  Also  he  performed  strange  dances.  Ken 
tucky  and  Lizette  almost  fell  backward  down  the  stairs. 
But  when,  recovered  from  her  astonishment  at  this  new 


26  LIZETTE. 

development,  Lizette  and  the  ancient  student  of  the  in 
genious  hat  followed  Murdoch  in,  she  gazed  critically  at 
him  and  decided  that  he  made  a  most  impressive  and  de 
lightful  savage. 

Finally  she  went  to  him  and  took  his  face  between  her 
hands.  Having  adjusted  it  at  an  angle  which  was  com 
pletely  satisfactory,  she  kissed  him  on  the  lips,  getting  a 
smudge  of  paint  upon  the  tip  of  her  own  nose  in  the  doing 
of  it. 

•'Is  it  that  there  are  many  of  ze  sauvages  who  go  like  zis 
upon  ze  streets  in  New  York  City?"  she  asked  of  him  in 
complete  and  charming  innocence. 

Murdoch  gazed  at  her  in  mild,  but  growing  wonder. 

"Lizette,"  he  murmured  softly  as  he  gazed,  "you  are  to 
me  a  constant  source  of  joy  and  peace.  No,  my  child, 
there  are  few  who  go  like  this  upon  the  Broadway  of  New 
York.  Nearly  all  the  people  in  the  United  States  wear 
shirts  and  trousers  when  they  appear  in  public.  Indeed, 
I  may  almost  say  that  the  appearance  of  a  man  in  such  a 
garb  as  this,  on  Broadway,  would  be  sensational." 

Kentucky  was  convulsed  by  ribald  laughter. 

"It  was,"  Lizette  said  gravely,  as  she  went  to  get  the 
cloths  and  soap  and  other  things  to  begin  anew  the 
removal  of  the  paint,  "in  ze  thought  of  me,  that  Indians 
were  there — in  New  York.  I  was  wrong.  Alas!  That 
all  of  us  should  so  often  have  the  wrong  in  thoughts  of 
other  people  and  in  thoughts  of  places  which  we  know  not 
well." 

And  then  she  cleaned  him  up. 


CHAPTER  V, 

KENTUCKY. 

They  had  few  close  friends  except  Kentucky.  The  man 
who  had  so  ingeniously  preserved  his  hat,  Murdoch 
learned  to  know  as  an  unfortunate  of  great  natural  ability, 
who  had  misplaced  himself.  It  was  impossible  to  fail  to 
like  him.  The  pictures  on  which  he  toiled  persistently 
were  terrifyingly  bad. 

Only  once,  and  that  had  been  long  years  before, 
had  Kentucky  ever  sold  one  of  his  canvases,  but  one  of 
his  many  ways  of  paying  for  his  food  and  little  room  was 
coloring  on  wood  the  small  copies  of  famous  paintings, 
which  were  in  those  days  (and  are  still,  I  presume)  every 
where  for  sale  in  Paris  for  five  francs  apiece.  They  were 
especially  used  by  the  dealers  to  cheat  tourists  with.  They 
were  offered  to  them  on  the  plea  that  they  were  the  work 
of  students  in  the  Quarter,  who  did  them  in  the  schools, 
under  the  direction  of  the  greatest  masters,  as  practice  in 
their  study  of  the  arts.  A  pattern  of  the  painting  to  be 
copied  was  made  on  wooden  slabs.  It  was  then  the 
artist's  duty  to  fill  this  in,  using  as  much  paint  as  possible 
to  hide  the  pattern  completely,  and  make  the  slab  look  as 
though  the  picture  had  been  painted  with  a  free  hand. 
The  dealers  furnished  the  materials,  and  for  each  one  of 
the  little  pictures  paid  a  franc  and  a  half  to  the  artist  who 
had  colored  it. 

If  Kentucky  really  settled  down  to  it  and  labored  indus 
triously  for  a  twenty-four-hour  stretch,  without  stopping, 
except  for  meals,  he  could  copy  as  many  as  twenty  in  that 
time.  His  mechanical  ability  stood  him  in  good  stead  in 
this  work,  for  Kentucky  could  paint  as  fine  and  straight 
a  line  as  a  professional  carriage  striper.  This  work  he 


28  LIZETTE. 

did,  perhaps,  twice  a  week.  He  locked  himself  into  his 
dingy  little  room  at  daybreak,  with  a  bottle  of  weak  wine, 
some  bread  and  cheese  and  the  materials  for  his  artistic 
effort.  He  did  not  emerge  again  until  the  following 
morning  about  ten,  when  he  had  his  little  pictures  ready 
for  the  dealers.  Those  delicate  lines  made  a  ready  market 
for  him,  but  he  had  a  grievance  against  the  merchants  in 
that  they  frequently  demanded  of  him  that  the  pictures 
should  be  dry  before  they  were  paid  for.  Kentucky  had  de 
vised  a  curious  light  wooden  box,  divided  into  small  com 
partments.  It  opened  by  the  removal  of  a  side.  By  means 
of  this  he  was  enabled  to  deliver  his  wares  while  the  paint 
on  them  was  fresh,  and  this  hard-hearted  mandate  of  the 
dealers  who  required  of  him  that  it  should  be  quite  dry 
before  they  paid  was  to  him  another  evidence  of  the  de 
sire  of  mercenaries  to  keep  genius  down.  He  used  to 
make  speeches  about  the  dangers  of  the  monopolistic 
tendencies  in  France  at  the  cafes  chantants,  in  Mont- 
martre,  and  when  he  reached  the  close  of  his  addresses  he 
invariably  used  this  matter  of  the  fresh  paint  upon  his 
pictures  as  the  final  illustration  by  which  he  made  his 
point.  These  points  of  his  were  always  greeted  by  vocif 
erous  applause. 

When  Kentucky  was  not  painting  his  little  wooden 
pictures,  or  permitting  some  anxious  soul  to  purchase 
absinthe  for  him,  he  haunted  the  libraries  and  devoured 
their  contents  with  an  interest  that  amounted  to  a  passion. 
Everything  was  meat  to  him,  from  the  reports  of  the  Paris 
Bureau  of  Health  to  the  manifold  volumes  of  French 
romance.  He  had  a  faculty  for  remembering  all  that  he 
read  with  complete  accuracy,  and  by  the  time  John  Mur 
doch  met  him  the  learning  acquired  in  this  way  amounted 
on  some  subjects — mostly  useless  to  him — to  erudition. 
He  sometimes  wrote  advertising  pamphlets,  and  he  could 
correct  the  French  of  even  the  most  careful  Parisians,  as 
to  construction,  although  his  accent  was  heartrending. 
When  Blank  &  Co.  produced  their  English-French  and 
French-English  dictionaries,  he  was  employed  upon  the 
work,  so  that  for  six  months  he  did  not  need  to  paint  little 
pictures.  He  had  a  horror  of  sleeping  during  darkness, 


KENTUCKY.  29 

t 

and  it  was  his  great  desire  to  miss  only  a  very  little  of 
the  daylight.  Probably  no  human  being,  unless  it  might 
have  been  Napoleon,  ever  lived  with  less  sleep  than  poor 
Kentucky. 

One  of  his  few  unpleasant  eccentricities  was  that  of 
calling  at  the  studios  of  his  friends,  at  about  the  time 
when  they  were  preparing  to  go  to  bed,  and  keeping  them 
up  all  night  by  marvellously  interesting  discourses  on  all 
sorts  of  things,  from  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  to  the 
best  method  of  raising  mushrooms.  It  apparently  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  while  he  needed  little  sleep,  his  friends 
might  not,  also,  be  abnormal  in  this  matter.  And  the 
trouble  with  Kentucky  was,  not  that  he  insisted  on  stay 
ing  all  night,  but  that  his  hearers,  after  he  once  began  to 
talk,  insisted  on  it.  He  could  weave  a  romance  about  a 
bit  of  sewer  pipe  in  conversation,  or  make  a  poem  of  a 
paving  stone.  Sometimes,  when  he  did  not  feel  in  a  talk 
ative  mood,  he  cleverly  performed  most  amazing  tricks  of 
sleight  of  hand  or  nosed  around  the  studio,  trying  to  devise 
some  convenience  which  it  lacked,  so  that  he  could  supply 
it.  Murdoch's  studio  had  lamp-brackets  wherever  a  beam 
could  be  found  strong  enough  to  nail  them  to.  It  had 
shelves;  it  had  ingeniously  devised  board  boxes  which 
cleverly  concealed  household  details.  An  especially  con 
structed  lamp  globe  came  as  near  to  counterfeiting  sun 
light  as  an  electric  light.  All  these  were  the  work  of 
Kentucky. 

One  bleak  night  in  December  he  climbed  the  four 
flights  of  stairs  to  Murdoch's  studio.  Lizette  and  John 
recognized  his  step  before  it  reached  their  outer  door. 
John  was  tired  after  a  long  day's  work,  and  Lizette  was 
sitting  by  him,  gently  stroking  his  hand  and  gazing 
dreamily  into  a  spluttering  fire  of  caked  coal-dust  which 
burned  in  an  old  Franklin  stove.  That  stove,  which 
showed  the  bright  burning  of  the  coals  so  plainly  to  them, 
was  much  comfort  to  her.  She  loved  to  make  pictures 
in  the  fire.  Always  John  Murdoch  was  in  those  pictures, 
and  always  in  the  pictures  he  held  her  hand.  She  loved 
the  old  stove,  despite  its  cracks  and  general  unworthiness, 
and  when  Murdoch  decided  one  day  that  he  should  buy 


30  LIZETTE. 

a  new  one  she  protested;  so  many  beautiful  visions  had 
the  glowing  coals  in  that  one  shown  to  her.  The  sound 
of  Kentucky's  step  that  night  was  an  interruption  to  very 
pretty  dreams,  and  she  looked  up  at  John  Murdoch  with  a 
rueful  little  smile  and  said: 

"Eet  ees  Kaintucky." 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Murdoch,  hastily.  "Put  the  light 
out,  sweetheart,  and  perhaps  he  won't  stay  long.  I'm 
always  glad  to  see  Kentucky,  but  to-night  we  are  both 
tired.  Put  the  lights  out." 

Lizette  obediently  put  out  the  lights.  The  last  one  was 
barely  dimmed  when  Kentucky's  well-known  double  rap 
was  heard,  and  Murdoch  opened  the  door  to  him.  The 
fact  that  the  studio  was  in  darkness  apparently  did  not 
impress  Kentucky.  He  entered  and  sat  down. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  that  we  can't  have  a  talk  to-night, 
old  chap,"  said  the  mendacious  Murdoch.  "You  see  my 
allowance  has  run  out  and  I  couldn't  buy  oil  to-day." 

This  was  a  lie,  but  in  the  Quarter  one  must  sometimes 
tell  innocent  lies,  if  one  would  live.  And  it  was  a  good 
lie,  for  that  a  student  should  be  out  of  oil  and  unable  to 
buy  more  was  not  at  all  surprising. 

"Who  wants  to  talk?"  demanded  Kentucky.  "Will  you 
lend  me  a  little  butter?" 

Murdoch  heaved  a  sigh  of  tired  relief.  It  seemed  that 
Kentucky  had  not  come  to  talk,  after  all.  He  had  come 
to  borrow  butter. 

Lizette  gave  him  the  butter  on  a  small  saucer.  Ken 
tucky  took  from  his  pocket  an  old  handkerchief  and 
deftly  made  a  little  bag  of  it,  in  which  he  placed  the 
butter.  He  folded  three  of  the  corners  under,  after  he 
had  saturated  the  remaining  one  with  butter  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  fire,  while  the  others  looked  on  in  wonder 
ment.  Then  he  pinned  the  bundle  up  so  that  the  fourth 
corner  stood  upright. 

"Got  a  match?"  he  asked  of  Murdoch. 

Murdoch  gave  Kentucky  a  match,  and  with  it  he  lit 
the  lamp  which  he  had  improvised.  It  burned  somewhat 
smokily  until  almost  three  in  the  morning  while  he  told 
them,  amidst  a  most  outrageous  smell  of  blazing  grease, 


KENTUCKY.  31 

about  coffee  in  India  and  the  old  legends  of  the  Breton 
peasants.  During  all  this  time  his  eyes  never  once 
wandered  toward  the  well-filled  lamps  standing  in  the 
brackets  which  he  himself  had  put  up. 

Presently  Kentucky  wearied  of  these  subjects.  Then 
he  took  two  English  walnuts  and  removed  the  kernels. 
One  of  these  he  gravely  ate.  The  other  he  broke  in  half, 
and  putting  one  piece  into  one  of  the  empty  shells,  he 
placed  the  other  in  the  other,  and  held  one  in  each  hand. 

"There  is  something  remarkable  about  the  kernels  of 
these  nuts,"  he  said.  "You  will  observe  that  God  made 
the  two  halves  of  that  broken  kernel  to  go  together  and 
stay  together  for  all  time.  But  you  see  that  I,  Kentucky, 
Fate,  Circumstance,  or  whatever  you  wish  to  call  me,  have 
torn  the  two  halves  of  that  kernel  apart  and  placed  one- 
half  in  one  shell  and  the  other  in  another.  That  was  not 
as  God  intended  them  to  be.  He  made  both  halves  to  go 
in  the  same  shell,  for  all  time,  or  for  such  time  as  that 
nut  should  exist.  But  they  have  been  torn  asunder. 

"You  will  see  soon  that  they  will  re-unite.  It  is  so 
with  human  beings.  Certain  of  them  God  makes  to  go 
together.  I  believe  that  he  made  you,  Murdoch,  and  you, 
Lizette,  to  go  together.  And  I  believe  that  he  will  see 
that  you  are  together  in  spite  of  anything  that  man  may 
do.  I  have  never  seen  two  people  so  admirably  mated. 
You  are  a  great  joy  to  me,  my  children,  and  I  love  you 
both.  Now  you  see  that  I  have  one  nutshell  in  one  hand, 
with  one-half  of  that  separated  kernel  in  it,  and  I  have 
the  other  nutshell  in  the  other  hand  with  the  other  half 
of  that  separated  kernel  in  it.  They  belong  together.  You 
will  see  that,  despite  my  hands,  despite  the  hands  of  Fate, 
they  will  get  together  somehow,  and  you — you  clever  ones 
— will  not  be  able  to  tell  how,  any  more  than  other  clever 
ones  would  be  able  to  tell  how,  if  you  should  be  sepa 
rated,  you  would  find  one  another  and  join  your  hands 
again.  But  see!" 

Lizette  was  fascinated  by  the  talk.  The  dim  light  and 
the  gaunt  figure  of  Kentucky,  who,  when  he  did  his  tricks, 
made  himself  absolutely  diabolical  in  looks  'by  ruffling  his 
long  hair  and  rolling  his  eyes  around  fiendishly,  seemed 


32  LIZETTE. 

uncanny.  And  that  matter  of  her  separating  from 
John  Murdoch!  Why  should  he  have  hit  on  that?  That 
very  afternoon  she  had  sat  hy  the  fire  and  wondered  about 
the  days  to  come.  Would  her  romance  end  as  had  so  many 
she  had  known  of  in  the  Quarter?  Would  it  end  with 
Murdoch's  passing  on  to  worlds  unknown  beyond  the 
seas,  while  she  stayed  back,  to  weep  for  him?  That  she 
could  not  credit,  for  John  Murdoch  was  not  like  those  of 
whom  she  thought,  and  she  knew  with  sweet  conceit  that 
she  was  different  from  the  women  whom  she  thought  of. 
But  this  little  nut  trick  of  Kentucky's  held  her  just  the 
same,  after  his  introduction  of  it,  as  a  snake's  eye  holds  a 
bird. 

"You  will  see,"  Kentucky  droned  on,  in  the  most  ap 
proved  manner,  "that  I  am  cruel  Circumstance,  and  that 
I  have  torn  that  tender  kernel  apart.  In  one  nutshell  is 
the  one-half,  and  that  is  in  this  hand.  In  the  other  nut 
shell  is  the  other  half,  and  that  is  in  this  hand.  I  hold 
them  tightly.  Fate  holds  them  tightly.  Bear  that  in  mind. 
But  the  world  moves.  See,  I  move  my  hands  to  show  the 
movement  of  the  world,  which  even  Fate  must  bow  to." 

He  blew  solemnly  upon  each  nutshell,  and  moved  his 
arms  mysteriously  about.  Then  his  hands  opened  and  he 
showed  the  two  nutshells  there  just  as  before. 

"We  will  open  them/'  he  said,  "and  see  if  natural 
affinity  has  not  put  them  again  together  in  spite  of  Fate." 

He  opened  one  shell  and  it  was  empty.  Lizette  was 
bending  over  eagerly  to  see. 

"See?"  she  said,  prettily,  "I  have  left  my  shell.  Open 
of  the  other  one,  Kaintucky.  I  am  no  longer  I.  It  must 
be  that  I  have  gone  to  the  other  shell  and  now  am  him — 
my  Pudgy.  Open  the  other  one,  Kaintucky." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Kentucky,  still  in  the  manner  of  a 
conjuror,  "that  in  spite  of  me,  Fate,  who  have  tried  to 
keep  you  from  him,  you  have  gone  to  join  your  affinity  in 
the  other  shell.  I  could  not  keep  you  from  him.  I,  Fate, 
could  not  do  it.  We  shall  see  that  you  have  gone  to  join 
your  other  half." 

And  he  opened  the  other  shell.  But  there,  within  it, 
was  only  the  single  half  kernel  that  had  been  there  all  the 


MURDOCH 


^KENTUCKY.  33 

time.  Its  affinity  had  not  gone  to  join  it.  Fate  had 
failed  in  the  playing  of  her  game,  for  the  fingers  of  Ken 
tucky,  her  representative,  had  slipped. 

"Bah!"  he  said,  discomfited.  "I  must  have  fumbled.  It 
is  lucky  for  us  all,  my  dear,  that  the  fingers  of  real  Fate 
are  cleverer  and  surer  than  the  fingers  of  Kentucky." 

They  looked  for  the  half  kernel  which  had  searched  for 
its  affinity  in  the  other  shell  and  failed  to  find  it.  It  was 
lying  on  the  floor,  where  Fate  had  dropped  it,  and  had 
been  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  to  the  kernel  of  a  nut 
by  the  heavy  foot  of  the  magician. 

Of  course,  they  laughed  at  the  mishap.  It  was  such  a 
very  simple  matter  for  Kentucky's  fingers,  to  have  slipped! 
But  there  was  a  sign  of  strain  and  effort  in  Lizette's  smile 
which  they  would  have  seen  if  the  light  from  Kentucky's 
funny  little  lamp  had  been  bright  enough  to  show  her 
face,  and  though  she  pretended  to  make  merry  over  Fate's 
failure  to  put  her  with  her  Pudgy,  the  episode  really  scared 
and  worried  her  in  spite  of  the  better  sense  which  she 
tried  to  bring  to  bear  on  it. 

The  little  lamp  which  Kentucky  had  improvised  flick 
ered  and  went  out.  He  said  good-night  at  last,  although 
he  should  have  said  good-morning,  for  it  was  within  an 
hour  of  dawn.  Lizette  threw  her  arms  about  Murdoch's 
neck  and  clung  to  him.  She  said  nothing  of  the  foolish 
pain  that  filled  her  heart — such  an  impressionable  little 
heart  it  was! — but  it  really  beat  fast  in  terror  over  the 
dire  failure  of  the  two  halves  of  the  kernel  to  get  together 
in  their  appointed  shell. 

"Oh,  Pudgy!"  she  said  to  Murdoch,  as  her  arms  clung 
tight  about  his  neck. 

No  one  ever  knew  where  she  got  that  name  "Pudgy" 
for  Murdoch.  But  she  had  it  and  it  clung  to  him  through 
all  his  student  life,  and  if,  in  after  years  he  heard  it,  it 
always  filled  him  with  a  delicious  thrill — a  thrill  made  up 
of  all  those  pleasant  emotions  which  he  had  learned  dur 
ing  those  ecstatic  years  when  Lizette  was  with  him. 

"Oh,  Pudgy,"  she  said  to  him.  "You  are  not  going  to 
let  me  drop  and  lie  there  till  some  one  brings  along  the 
foot  and  steps  upon  me?" 


34  LIZETTE. 

There  was  a  pathetic  tenderness  in  the  way  she  clung 
to  him  with  those  soft  arms  tight  about  his  neck.  He 
could  not  always  understand  her.  No  man  could  have 
always  understood  her. 

"Why,  no,  sweetheart!"  he  said,  soothingly. 

She  heaved  a  happy  little  sigh  at  this  assurance  and 
nestled  her  sweet  face  down  in  his  bosom  as  a  kittsn  might. 

"I  am  so  glad/'  she  said. 

In  an  instant  she  straightened  up  and  looked  at  him 
with  the  solemnity  which  always  meant  that  she  intended 
to  give  orders  to  him. 

"And  now  it  is,"  she  said,  "and  now  it  is  that  you  must 
sleep.  Poor  Pudgy!  He  kept  you  up  all  night,  and  it 
was  that  you  needed  to  go  to  bed.  Well,"  and  she  shook 
her  head  in  a  very  charming  way,  "it  is  that  you  cannot  go 
to  bed.  But  it  is  that  you  can  lie  you  down  for  a  few 
moments  while  I  get  your  coffee  for  you,  and  it  is  that  I 
can  wash  your  face  with  bright  cold  water  after  you  have 
awakened  up." 

And  it  was  that  these  things  happened. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST. 

John  Murdoch  was  not  a  genius,  but  he  Knew  some 
things,  and  what  he  knew,  he  knew.  That  was  where  the 
father's  part  of  him  came  in.  Perhaps  it  proved  to  be  a 
pity  later  that  it  did  not  stop  there.  That  is  as  one 
judges.  Poor  Lizette!  Poor  little  Lizette!  She  was  be 
yond  the  pale  of  society,  was  Lizette,  but  no  bird  among 
all  those  that  twittered  in  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg 
was  more  innocent  of  knowledge  of  wrong-doing  than  was 
this  same  Lizette.  She  had  found  her  life — John  Mur 
doch.  She  lived  her  life  as  best  she  knew,  by  loving  him 
as  few  are  loved,  by  caring  for  him  as  a  little  mother 
might,  by  helping  him  in  all  he  did  as  few  are  helped. 

All  her  thoughts  were  thoughts  for  him;  all  her 
plans  were  plans  for  him;  she  lived  her  life  for  him  and 
loved  that  life  because  he  was  a  part  of  it.  That  he  loved 
her  there  was  no  doubt.  That  she  loved  him — one  might 
have  banked  one's  soul  on  that,  it  was  so  certain.  He  was 
her  day,  he  was  her  week,  he  was  her  year.  Those  four 
years  that  he  was  all  Lizette's,  what  a  happy  little 
ignorant  little,  unmoral  little  French  girl  she  was  for  those 
four  years.  She  was  so  ignorant,  indeed,  that  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  wicked.  She  was  so  happy  that  at  first 
she  never  dreamed  that  happiness  could  have  an  end. 
Poor  Lizette! 

The  little  episode  of  the  trick  that  had  failed  because 
Kentucky's  fingers  had  been  clumsy  overshadowed  her  all 
day.  Almost  always  she  was  merry,  was  Lizette,  'but  this 
day  she  was  not.  Not  that  she  passed  the  day  in  moping; 
that  would  have  been  quite  unlike  her.  But  it  was  a 
quiet,  thoughtful  day,  a  day  of  drifting  thought,,  as  our 


36  LIZETTK 

days  are  like  to  be  when  we  have  not  slept  enough  at 
night.  Her  thoughts  were  retrospective  thoughts.  She 
was  in  that  mood  when  any  pleasant  thing  might  bring 
a  smile,  but  only  something  very  funny  would  have  made 
a  hearty  laugh.  Those  shells!  They  troubled  her.  She 
had  not  looked  much  into  the  future.  Since  she  had  met 
her  Pudgy,  each  day  had  seemed  so  great  a  joy  that  there 
was  no  time  for  the  anticipation  of  other  joyous  days  to 
come. 

This  day  her  thoughts  went  drifting  back  into  the 
dreamy  past.  It  had  not  been  a  happy  past,  but  there  was 
an  indefinite,  uncertain  little  margin  of  bright  days  at  its 
very  beginning,  away  back,  so  far  that  her  memory  could 
only  grope  for  it  and  sometimes  could  only  grope  in  vain. 
Certainly  it  was  very  strange  and  very  happy,  that  little 
bit — but  it  was  afar  off  in  the  south  of  France,  where 
grapes  and  olives  grow,  and  where  the  sun  shines  hot  and 
where  the  snow  storms  never  come,  and  where  a  great  big, 
bearded  man  had  sometimes  held  her  in  his  arms  and 
talked  to  her  in  a  loud,  good-natured  voice,  and  tossed  her 
up  before  a  painter's  easel.  That  man,  she  knew,  had 
been  her  father.  She  could  not  recall  much  about  him. 
She  remembered  that  the  man  had  talked  much  to  her 
while  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  remembered  that 
he  had  talked  in  English,  at  least  at  times,  for  now,  when 
she  was  studying  English  so  very  hard,  that  she  might 
please  her  Pudgy  by  her  progress,  she  sometimes  found  a 
word  which  came  like  an  echo  out  of  the  dim  past. 

And  those  words  that  came  back  to  her  with  a  strange 
familiarity  were  almost  always  words  of  endearment.  She 
decided  that  the  man — that  great,  big  father,  with  the 
deep  voice  and  the  strong  arms,  who  had  held  her  up  and 
hugged  her  in  that  dim  past  in  the  Southland — must  have 
called  her  by  sweet,  English  love  names.  She  tried  to 
make  a  picture  in  her  mind  which  might,  perhaps,  be  like 
this  father,  but  the  days  when  those  strong  arms  had 
tossed  her  up  and  caught  her  and  when  those  bearded  lips 
had  uttered  those  sweet  words  were  too  remote  for  that. 
It  was  a  sore  trial  to  her  that  she  could  bring  no  picture 
to  her  mind,  not  even  an  indefinite,  blurred  picture  like 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST.  37 

that  of  the  tall  man,  which  she  might  hang  on  memory's 
walls,  and  love  and  whisper  "Mother"  to.  But  there  was 
none.  She  was  sure  the  father  was  a  painter  because  she 
could  remember  that  he  had  bade  her  look  at  things  upon 
an  easel.  There  came  to  her  during  this  dreamy  day,  also, 
a  dim  vision  of  a  quaint,  old  church,  and  a  solemn  grave 
yard,  guarded  by  sentinel  poplars.  What  connection  this 
graveyard  had  with  her  babyhood  she  could  not  guess. 
Perhaps  the  bearded  father  painted  there  in  days  long 
gone.  Perhaps  the  mother,  whose  faintest  image  would 
not  come  back  to  her  memory,  lay  buried  there.  Where 
that  half-forgotten  graveyard  was,  she  did  not  know.  It 
was  somewhere  in  the  South  where  grapes  and  olives 
grow,  and  that  was  all  that  she  could  tell  of  it.  It  was  a 
faded  picture  in  her  memory,  faintly  outlined,  dimly  seen. 

To  grope  and  grope  among  these  shadows  of  the  past 
and  never  find  a  solid  tangibility;  to  wonder  and  to 
speculate  as  to  even  what  her  name  might  really  be;  to 
yearn  to  feel  those  great  strong  arms  of  the  big  English 
painter  clasped  around  her,  while  he  tossed  her  high  in  air 
or  bade  her  look  upon  the  glowing  sunset,  which  kissed 
the  rough  corners  of  the  ancient  church  with  red  caresses 
and  made  the  martial  poplars  look  still  more  like  sentinels 
as  they  stood  black  and  precise  against  its  flaming  back 
ground — that  was  all  she  had,  was  all  that  she  could  find 
of  those  long  past  happy  days  in  the  sunny  Southland 
where  grapes  grow  and  olives  bend  the  low  branches  of 
carefully  pruned  trees  in  orchards  that  seemed  to  her,  as 
she  remembered  them  so  vaguely,  to  reach  miles  and  miles 
on  the  flat  plain  on  which  the  church  stood,  and  even  to 
climb  a  little  way  up  the  first  gentle  slopes  of  the  mount 
ains  which  were  somewhere  near,  but  where  she  could  not 
tell. 

The  first  sharply  defined  memories  in  her  mind  were  all 
of  Paris.  How  she  got  there,  how  she  left  the  churchyard 
in  the  place  where  grapes  and  olives  grow  and  got  to 
Paris,  she  could  not  even  guess.  In  Paris,  ever  until  she 
had  met  her  Pudgy,  her  lot  had  been  a  hard  one.  The 
old  woman  with  whom  she  lived  as  a  small  child  had  left 
an  ugly  image  on  her  memory.  Bah!  She  could  see  her 


38  LIZETTE. 

yet.  And  she  was  dead  now.  When  she  had  lived  with 
her  she  had  had  three  companions.  All  were  little  girls, 
and  all  were  very  much  afraid  of  the  old  woman,  who  some 
times  beat  them  and  was  often  very  drunk.  She  shud 
dered  as  she  thought  of  that  old  woman;  but  then  she 
smiled  again  because  the  old  woman  had  gone  from  her 
life  and  Pudgy  had  come  into  it. 

Dear  little  Lizette!  That  sunny  soul  of  yours 
had  helped  you  through  many  shadowy  places  be 
fore  you  found  safe  haven  in  the  studio  whose  windows 
overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  Sordid, 
pestilential  dangers,  that  ever  lie  in  wait  for  young  and 
pretty  creatures  there  in  Paris,  as  in  every  other  city  on 
this  strange  old  earth  of  ours.  And,  indeed,  she  could 
see  as  she  sat  there  in  the  studio  that  day,  thinking  about 
the  unhappy  past  because  it  was  such  an  amazing  contrast 
to  the  bright  and  shining  present,  that  it  had  been  her 
ability  to  smile  and  suffer  which  had  saved  her  for  her 
Pudgy,  had  saved  her  for  herself.  It  had  kept  her  from 
grieving  over  sorrows  which  would  have  cast  down  many 
a  girl  apparently  of  a  sturdier  determination,  far,  than  she. 

It  had  made  her  smile  when  others  might  have  wept — or 
worse.  Such  hunger  as  she  had  known,  for  instance  (and 
there  were  days  gone  by  which  Lizette  sometimes  recalled 
now  at  table  with  a  happy  shrug  and  inward  congratula 
tion)  had  never  tempted  her  to  wrong  a  human  soul,  not 
even  her  own  soul — and  they  are  our  own  souls  for  which 
most  of  us  show  least  consideration.  When  in  her  very  early 
conscious  life,  in  the  days,  that  is,  of  the  old  woman,  back 
when  first  she  began  to  recall  hard  knocks  and  real  priva 
tions,  she  had  had  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  in  an  artifi 
cial  flower  factory  for  fifteen  francs  a  week,  which  the  old 
woman  took.  Then  her  sunny  soul  had  helped  her 
laugh  at  the  hard  work,  and  her  small,  wise  head  had 
helped  her  make  what  little  money  she  could  save  from 
Nemesis  go  far  indeed.  When,  one  day,  an  artist  spied 
her  and  begged  her  to  pose  for  him,  she  was  duly  thankful 
for  the  prosperity  which  came  from  it,  but  she  never  lost 
the  wisdom  in  that  little  head  of  hers,  and,  as  the  sun 
shine  in  that  soul  was  ever  bright,  no  matter  how  the 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST.  39 

clouds  might  lower  outside  of  it,  she  could  use  her  wisdom 
without  too  much  sorrow  over  the  rebuffs  and  real  priva 
tions  which  it  sometimes  brought  to  her. 

What  Lizette  knew  she  had  learned  with  very  little  con 
scious  help  from  others.  Even  in  Catholic  France,  she 
really  had  not  had  much  chance  to  learn  about  religion. 
She  had  a  dim  knowledge  of  the  personified  Deity,  and 
with  this  knowledge  had  come  a  very  beautiful  and  lovable 
conception  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  which  was,  perhaps,  not 
strictly  orthodox,  but  which  had  been  vastly  comforting 
to  her  on  many  days  and  nights  when  she  had  sadly  needed 
comfort. 

After  she  had  crossed  the  Seine  from  the  high  lofts  of 
the  flower  makers  to  the  equally  elevated  studios  of  the 
artists,  her  quaint,  lovely  Virgin,  all  her  own  (there  never 
was  in  any  other  mind  a  vision  of  the  Virgin  just  like 
Lizette's)  had  sometimes  helped  her  greatly.  Her  love 
for  her  personification  of  the  Holy  Mother  was  not  coldly 
theological.  She  really  knew  nothing  definitely  of  the 
arguments  of  any  church  or  creed.  She  imagined  Her  as 
a  warm,  loving,  but  invisible  entity  who  would  listen  to 
the  story  of  her  sorrows  when  they  came,  and  from  whom 
emanated  peace  and  comfort  even  in  the  face  of  worry  and 
privation.  On  this  conception  of  the  Virgin,  almost 
without  other  knowledge,  Lizette  had  built  a  little  faith 
that  was  all  hers;  quite  different  it  was  and  simpler  than 
the  religion  taught  in  churches;  but  it  had  been  most  help 
ful  to  her.  She  was  really  a  Pagan,  for  her  ignorance  of 
the  rules  and  rigors  of  religion  as  well  as  of  almost  all  its 
sublime  beauties,  was  appalling.  But  this  faith  she  had, 
this  faith  in  Mary,  God's  holy  mother. 

She  became,  through  force  of  circumstances,  strangely 
self-reliant.  After  her  flight  from  the  old  woman  she  had 
been  alone,  and  it  is  not  good  for  a  young  girl  to  be  alone 
in  Paris,  but  she  trod  her  little  way  unflinchingly.  At 
first,  after  she  had  begun  to  pose  for  artists,  she  had  been 
wholly  without  friends.  For  a  time  there  had  been  a 
woman  artist  who  had  taught  her  much  about  the  rudi 
ments  of  "school  knowledge,"  had  taught  her  _  to  read 
easily  and  opened  up  the  small  world  of  "books  which  she 


40  LIZETTE. 

could  reach  to  her.  Lizette  had  loved  this  woman  artist 
very  dearly,  although  she  was  ill  and  often  cross  and 
sometimes  could  find  no  good  in  Lizette's  posing,  no 
matter  how  faithfully  the  little  model  tried  with  tired 
limbs  and  aching  head  to  please  her.  But  she  had  gone 
away  from  Paris  and  had  not  come  back. 

Of  course,  there  had  been  the  Latin  Quarter  girls,  good- 
natured,  superficial  creatures  without  thought  of  past  or 
future.  They  had  been  companions  to  whom  she  had 
been  glad  to  chatter  when  she  had  been  tired  with  posing. 
They  posed  in  the  schools,  those  big  girls,  and  often  told 
Lizette  that  she  could  make  more  money  if  she  would  go 
there,  but  she  had  never  gone.  Still  she  often  talked  with 
them.  One  could  not  always  sit  in  solitude,  she  had  told 
herself.  With  the  artists  she  had  been  ever  ready  for  Ion 
camaraderie — with  limits.  One  or  two  had  tried  to  over 
step  the  bounds  and  failed.  She  was  not  afraid  of  them, 
and  it  was  with  no  shudders,  such  as  come  from  dangers 
dodged,  that  she  thought  of  them,  as  she  sat  there,  over 
looking  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  Indeed,  she 
laughed  aloud,  as  she  sat  there  alone,  and  thought  of  one 
jackanapes  from  England.  He  had  named  her  the  "tiger 
cat  p'tite"  and  with  good  reason,  in  three  flaming  scars 
which  still  showed  plainly,  two  on  one,  the  other  on  the 
other,  of  his  cheeks.  When  he  first  appeared  in  public, 
after  the  episode,  she  had  regarded  these  scars  with  calm 
curiosity  and,  while  she  marveled,  rejoiced  greatly  at  their 
emphasis.  She  had  not  dreamed  that  there  had  been  such 
potency  within  her  finger  nails.  It  was  very  satisfying. 
When  she  was  disconsolate  she  sometimes  sought  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  English  student  and  his  scars.  A  moment's 
gazing  at  them  would  make  her  feel  quite  gay  again. 

"It  is  hard  for  me  to  feel  the  certainty,"  she  reflected, 
"that  with  my  so  little  fingers  I  could  make  the  so  splen 
did  stripes  upon  the  face  of  him.  But,  of  a  certainty,  they 
were  there.  Bah!  the  great  beast  Englishman!  I  am 
most  happy  that  I  did  it — that  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
myself  did  do  it!" 

The  story  of  this  fierce  encounter  had  flown  like  wild 
fire  around  the  Quarter  and  cost  the  big  Englishman 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST.  41 

much,  both  in  beer  and  peace  of  mind.  He  had  left  his 
course  at  Julian's  unfinished  finally,  and  gone  home  to 
England,  where  there  is  no  law  to  prevent  husbands  from 
beating  their  wives  and  where,  Lizette  commented,  he 
would  doubtless  tell  that  the  scars  had  come  to  him  in  hon 
orable  combat  with  overwhelming  odds  of  many  men. 
"And  all  that  time,  while  he  is  saying  that  so  'big  lie,"  she 
added,  "in  his  English  heart  it  is  that  he  will  have  the 
know  that  I — I,  Lizette,  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  the  small 
Lizette — made  the  so  pretty  picture  on  his  so  ugly  face." 

Lizette's  reward  was  great.  Her  place  was  fixed. 
Ardent  but  misguided  students  never  gave  to  her  "the 
bother"  after  that.  Such  enterprise  was  recognized  as  extra 
hazardous.  With  some  she  was  "good  comrade,"  certainly, 
but  after  that  it  was  most  firmly  understood  that  Lizette 
did  not  wish  to  have  "the  bother,"  and  that  anyone  who 
overstepped  the  very  definite  line  which  she  had  drawn 
would  be  liable  to  such  red  stripes  across '  his  cheek 
as  those  which  marked  the  absent  Englishman.  Such  had 
been  the  position  which  she  had  made  for  herself  in  the 
Quarter  before  she  met  John  Murdoch,  and  the  making 
of  it  had  required  as  much  force  and  originality  of  charac 
ter  as  many  a  success  apparently  much  greater  has  re 
quired  of  variously  striving  ones  in  this  queer  old  world. 

And  so  Lizette  sat  and  thought  about  the  past.  There 
were  dreams  of  the  future,  too,  within  her  pretty  head,  but 
they  were  vague  and  half-defined.  They  did  not  go  be 
yond  the  studio.  Pudgy  was  ever  the  central  figure  in 
them,  but  they  did  not  go  beyond  the  studio  which  over 
looked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg. 

It  was  with  a  start  of  real  surprise  that  she  realized, 
suddenly,  that  it  was  almost  time  for  the  return  of  Pudgy. 

The  nutshells  and  the  kernels — one  so  sadly  broken — 
she  locked  into  a  little  desk  where  her  small  treasure 
hoard  was  hidden,  and  her  gentle  melancholy  induced  by 
them  and  by  these,  some  sad,  some  happy  thoughts  about 
the  past,  vanished  in  the  bustle  which  went  with  the 
preparation  of  Pudgy's  second  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT  THE  MOULIN  ROUGE. 

Although  John  Murdoch's  father  was  a  rich  man,  he 
did  not  send  much  money  to  his  son.  John  Murdoch  had 
said  before  he  went  to  Paris  that  he  did  not  want  much 
money,  and  he  had  not  taken  very  much.  He  gave  little 
to  Lizette  of  those  things  which  meant  the  expenditure  of 
money.  This  was  not  a  matter  which  he  had  carefully 
thought  out.  It  was  merely  a  natural  circumstance. 
Their  compansionship  was  almost  ideal.  What  they 
needed  that  they  had.  He,  with  his  work,  and  she  with 
him;  they  had  no  time  to  waste  in  spending  money  sillily. 

In  their  living  they  were  never  extravagant.  In  New 
York,  indeed,  their  menage  would  have  been  considered 
most  simple.  In  the  Quarter,  that  is,  among  the  working 
students  of  the  Quarter,  it  was  eminently,  unusually,  com 
fortable.  There  was  a  solidity  about  it  which  was  absent 
from  any  other,  among  the  folk  they  knew.  It  was 
orderly  and  in  its  air  of  permanence  differed  from  the 
make-shift  life  which  is  common  to  the  Quarter  still,  and 
was  even  more  apparent  in  those  old  days. 

Lizette  rarely  asked  for  money.  She  had  no  idea  that 
Murdoch  was  a  rich  man.  The  knowledge  would  not 
have  interested  her  particularly  had  it  been  imparted  to 
her.  He  did  not  hide  it.  It  simply  seemed  unnecessary 
to  state  a  fact  so  unimportant.  But  still  Lizette  was  rich 
in  all  those  things  which  really  counted  to  her.  She  was 
rich  in  the  contentment  which  comes  from  lack  of  worry 
about  material  things.  She  was  rich  in  this  home  which 
she  had  made  for  Murdoch,  and,  above  all,  she  was  rich  in 
having  him  always  with  her  when  he  was  not  at  work. 
What  times  they  had.  Almost  always  they  dined  at  the 


AT  THE  MOULIN  ROUGE.  43 

studio.  An  old  woman  cooked  the  essentials  of  their 
meals  for  them.  The  delicacies  were  always  made  by 
Lizette  herself.  Every  French  woman  knows  how  to 
cook;  she  is  born  knowing  how  to  cook.  But  some 
times  they  went  out  to  the  little  table  d'hote 
restaurants,  which  abound  in  the  Quarter,  and  where  one 
can  get  a  very  respectable  meal  for  a  franc  and  a  half  and 
really  dine  in  luxury  for  three  francs — with  wine!  And 
on  rare,  very  rare,  occasions,  they  went  to  such  grand 
places  as  the  Cafe  des  Ambassadeurs,  or  the  Voisin. 

Generally  when  they  dined  outside  the  studio  they 
went  elsewhere  afterward;  they  "made  a  night  of  it." 
These  nights  were  varied.  Sometimes  during  the  season, 
they  meant  the  Grand  Opera.  Sometimes  they  meant  such 
lively  places  as  the  Jardin  de  Paris  or  the  Moulin  Eouge. 
Oftener  they  meant  some  cafe  chantant  in  Montmartre, 
where  they  could  very  pleasantly  pass  an  evening 
amidst  the  oratorical  and  musical  flamboyancies  of  the 
students  who  philanthropically  (or  for  beer)  entertained 
their  fellows  there  with  songs  or  extravagant  oratory. 

Kentucky  was  often  one  among  the  impromptu  speak 
ers  at  these  cafe  gatherings,  which  the  general  public  dis 
creetly  kept  away  from,  and  with  good  reason.  The  pub 
lic  is  not  loved  and  never  was  of  Paris  students.  The 
appearance  of  a  butcher  and  his  wife  in  holiday  attire  at  a 
cafe  chantant  in  Montmartre  once  caused  a  riot  which 
lasted  for  three  days.  The  haughty  students  were  so  in 
censed  by  his  presence  that  they  tabooed  the  cafe-keeper 
who  had  let  him  in  so  thoroughly,  even  after  they  had 
spoiled  the  venturesome  butcher's  fete-day  clothes  and 
broken  all  the  windows  in  his  shop,  that  he  had  to  sell  his 
cafe  and  go  away.  A  doggerel  poem  of  many  stanzas  was 
pinned  upon  the  ruins  of  the  butcher  shop's  front  win 
dows.  It  informed  the  unfortunate  man  that  in  the  artis 
tic  mind  he  was  so  closely  associated  with  things  to  eat 
that  should  he  appear  again  within  the  purlieus  of  Mont 
martre  there  was  danger  that  he  might  be  mistaken  for 
a  dead  pig  instead  of  being  quickly  recognized  as  a  living 
one,  and  devoured  upon  the  spot.  The  warning  was 
heeded  and  the  poor  butcher  disappeared.  Once  in  a  very 


44  LIZETTE. 

great  while  the  nights  of  Murdoch  and  Lizette  meant  the 
Cafe  Domperille.  That  they  had  met  there  made  the 
place  sentimentally  attractive  to  them,  although  there  was 
naught  in  common  between  them  and  the  class  that  fre 
quented  it.  Murdoch  was  in  Paris  for  hard  work,  and  the 
Domperille  crowd  was  there  for  what  it  thought  was  play. 
Lizette  was  in  Paris,  as  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  on 
the  earth,  for  John  Murdoch  and  for  nothing  else. 

On  this  particular  evening  they  dined  in  state  at  the 
Voisin.  Lizette  was  charming  in  a  new  and  pretty  gown, 
and  the  reaction  from  the  afternoon  of  solemn  meditation 
made  her  unusually  gay.  In  everything  she  saw  there 
was  a  joke.  How  happily  she  laughed,  that  evening,  as  they 
sat  in  much  magnificence  and  ate  their  dainty  dinner! 
She  ordered  it,  and  each  dish  must  be  greeted  by  great 
surprise  and  much  delight  by  Murdoch,  else  it  would  have 
lost  its  flavor.  The  waiter  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
little  merry-making  and  was  most  grave  and  solemn  as  he 
listened  to  Lizette's  hushed  whispers,  given  behind  a 
screen  of  menu  card  so  that  Pudgy  should  on  no  account 
hear  what  was  being  ordered  for  him  to  eat.  It  was  all 
too  short,  that  dinner  at  the  Voisin.  While  they  eat 
dawdling  over  their  black  coffee  at  its  end  they  discussed 
the  matter  of  what  form  of  entertainment  should  follow  it. 
They  decided  on  the  Moulin  Eouge,  where  they  had  not 
been  for  months.  In  leaving  the  Voisin,  Lizette  gave  to 
the  waiter  two  whole  francs  in  tribute  to  his  cleverness  in 
hiding  what  she  ordered  from  her  Pudgy. 

The  drive  to  the  Moulin  Eouge  was  jolly,  but  it  was  be 
cause  they  went  there  that  John  Murdoch  hurt  Lizette  the 
only  time  he  ever  hurt  her  during  all  those  years  together. 
The  episode  so  impressed  them  both  that  they  hated  the 
place  afterwards  and  never  went  there  again. 

As  John  went  in  he  saw  some  friends  from  America  at 
one  of  the  little  tables.  There  were  five  of  them.  Two 
had  been  his  classmates  at  Cornell.  There  were  Mrs. 
Pascoe  and  her  niece  and  ward,  Miss  Markleham,  and 
there  was  old  Judge  Barry.  They  saw  Murdoch  as  he 
passed  and  Murdoch  bowed  and  called  out  that  he  would 
come  back.  He  took  Lizette  to  another  table  a  long  dis- 


AT  THE  MOULIN  ROUGE.  45 

tance  away,  and  as  much  because  she  urged  him  as  be 
cause  he  wanted  to  himself,  he  went  back  to  see  his  friends, 
leaving  her  with  some  people  from  the  Quarter  whom  they 
had  found.  He  told  her  that  he  would  return  to  her  in 
a  few  moments. 

Murdoch  was  not  overjoyed  at  his  meeting  with  the 
ladies,  and  he  had  his  reasons.  Before  he  had  gone  to 
college  he  had  thought  himself  in  love  with  Mary  Markle- 
ham.  At  all  the  important  college  games  she  had  worn 
his  colors,  and  when  commencement  came  she  had  jour 
neyed  to  his  college  town,  and  it  had  been  a  posy  sent  by 
her  which  had  adorned  his  buttonhole  as  he  had  been 
graduated.  Before  he  left  New  York  for  Paris  there  had 
been  strange  flutterings  in  his  heart  when  her  name  was 
mentioned,  and  a  correspondence,  long  since  ended,  had 
flourished  for  a  time  between  them.  She  looked  a  very 
lovely  girl  that  night,  and  if  she  remembered  the  last  letter 
which  she  had  written  to  him  and  he  had  never  answered, 
she  made  no  sign.  She  was  frankly  pleased  at  seeing 
him  again,  but  he  was,  at  first,  uneasy  in  her  presence. 
Soon,  though,  so  unaffected  and  delightful  was  her  man 
ner,  so  impersonal  was  her  interest  in  what  he  told  of 
student  life  in  Paris,  that  he  forgot  his  worry  and 
thoroughly  enjoyed  himself. 

Once  or  twice,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  her  face,  a  quick 
comparison  of  this  girl  with  the  little  one  who  waited  for 
him  back  farther  in  the  hall,  flashed  through  his  mind,  but 
there  was  no  pleasant  flutter  in  his  breast  this  night  as  he 
looked  at  Mary  Markleham.  His  thoughts  turned  toward 
Lizette,  and  he  was  glad  of  it.  It  pleased  him  that  the 
love  he  knew  was  genuine  should  stand  this  little  test  so 
well.  But  time  slipped  by  much  faster  than  he  realized. 
He  had  thought  very  little  of  his  home  and  the  people  in 
it  since  he  had  been  in  Paris.  He  had  rarely,  even, 
brought  the  old  days  at  college  to  his  mind,  except  to  fcell 
funny  stories  of  them  to  Lizette  when  she  was  curled  up, 
listening,  at  his  side,  and  begging  that  he  should  make  her 
laugh  with  the  so  droll  tales  of  when  and  where  he  learned 
so  much.  But  this  night  the  ladies  had  many  things  to 
say  to  him  of  folk  he  knew.  The  Judge  had  seen  his 


48  LIZETTE. 

father  lately,  and  spoke  of  him.  His  old  classmates  brought 
many  things  which  he  had  half  forgotten  to  his  memory 
with  a  rush. 

It  was  not  especially  surprising  that  he  did  not  go  back 
to  Lizette  in  a  few  moments.  Indeed,  two  hours  had 
passed  before  he  suddenly,  and  with  an  honest  pang  of 
shame,  remembered  Lizette — Lizette,  whose  only  thought 
was  ever  of  him.  He  said  his  good-nights  hurriedly  and 
hastened  to  the  table  where  he  had  left  her.  The  people 
who  had  been  there  when  he  had  taken  her  there  were 
still  sitting  at  the  table,  but  Lizette  had  gone.  They  said 
that  she  had  told  them  that  she  must  go  and  asked  one  of 
the  older  women  to  take  her  to  a  cab.  This  was  the  old 
woman  of  whom  they  bought  their  coals.  The  students 
were  giving  her  a  treat  that  night.  She  had  trusted  one 
of  them  against  the  better  judgment  of  the  Quarter,  and 
now  that  he  had  money  he  was  treating  her  to  an  even 
ing's  entertainment  as  a  reward  for  her  faith  in  his  very 
human  nature.  She  was  a  motherly  old  person,  who  took 
a  personal  interest  in  the  affairs  of  all  her  regular  cus 
tomers. 

"I  went  with  her  to  the  cab,"  she  said  to  John,  "and  as 
we  went  out  we  saw  you  sitting  at  a  table  with  some 
Americans.  Little  Madame"  (you  will  see  that  the  old 
French  woman  did  not  know)  "she  called  to  you  a  little, 
oh,  a  very  little,  but  you  did  not  hear.  I  told  her  to  call 
louder,  but  she  would  not.  And  she  said  to  me,  'you  must 
not  disturb  him.  He  is  with  old  friends  from  America. 
I  know  who  they  are.  They  are  to  take  supper  with  us  at 
the  studio  later,  and  that  is  why  I  must  hurry  away.  I 
must  be  ready  for  them/  And  she  made  me  make  haste 
to  find  for  her  a  cab.  It  seemed  strange  to  me  that,  if 
they  were  to  take  supper  with  you  later,  she  should  not 
stop  to  speak  with  them,  but  I  found  a  cab  for  her  and  she 
drove  away.  But,  M'sieu,"  and  here  there  was  more  than 
a  trace  of  anxiety  in  the  old  woman's  voice,  "when  the  cab 
started  she  was  crying,  softly." 

Murdoch  understood  at  once  the  pathos  of  Lizette's 
little  lie  about  her  knowledge  of  his  friends  and  it  made 
him  choke  with  guilty  consciousness  of  his  neglect.  He 


AT  THE  MOULIN  ROUGE.  47 

hurried  out.  He,  too,  passed  the  table  where  the  Ameri 
cans  were  still  sitting,  but  he  only  looked  toward  it  and 
bowed  good-bye.  He  did  not  stop  and  gossip  this  time. 
All  that  was  decent  and  manly  in  him  rose  up  and  chided 
him  for  the  first  thoughtless  thing  he  had  ever  done  to  the 
little  girl  who  never  had  and  never  could  show  him  one 
thoughtless  sign.  Had  she  really  gone  to  the  studio?  He 
knew  why  she  had  told  the  old  woman  the  lie  about  having 
to  prepare  supper  for  the  Americans.  She  had  not  wanted 
anyone  to  know  that  he  had  friends  to  whom  he  would  not 
introduce  her.  Poor  little  Lizette!  Not  maid,  nor  wife, 
nor  widow,  yet  so  true!  So  very  true! 


CHAPTER  VIH. 

IN  THE  STUDIO. 

On  that  ride  to  the  studio  Murdoch  was  glad,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  that  he  had,  by  chance,  hit  upon  one 
of  those  desperate  cochers  who  are  prone  to  whip  their 
horses  and  drive  like  mad.  He  was  even  profane  in 
French,  when  he  spoke  to  him,  which  was  most  unusual, 
and  constantly  threw  at  him  from  between  his  teeth  a 
piece  of  French  slang  which  is  exactly  equivalent  to  the 
American  "push  on  the  lines."  The  driver  pushed  on  the 
lines  with  such  enthusiasm  that  it  was  a  very  short  time, 
indeed,  before  the  cab  reached  the  studio.  But  Lizette 
was  not  there.  Murdoch  was  distressed.  To  place  after 
place — the  studios  of  people  whom  they  both  knew — he 
was  driven  as  rapidly  as  possible,  but  he  found  her  in  none 
of  them.  Finally,  more  worried  and  remorseful  than  he 
had  ever  been  in  all  his  life  before,  he  told  the  driver  to 
go  slowly  up  the  Boul'  Miche,  so  that  he  might  think  of 
some  other  place  in  which  to  search. 

He  guessed  at  the  depths  of  dark  despair  into  which  his 
lack  of  consideration  might  have  plunged  the  little  one, 
and  there  were  in  his  mind  visions  of  the  Seine — that 
muddy,  narrow  stream  which  had  so  disappointed  him  on 
his  first  day  in  Paris.  And  beyond  them  was  a  picture  of 
that  ghastly  morgue,  where  they  put  the  dead  behind  a 
plate-glass  window  opening  on  the  street,  so  that  passers-by 
may  view  and  perhaps  identify  them. 

On  his  way  he  passed  the  Domperille.  He  did  not  look 
toward  it,  but  as  he  passed  the  strong  voice  of  Kentucky 
called  his  name.  At  first  he  thought  he  would  not  stop. 
He  did  not  want  to  see  Kentucky;  he  wanted  to  see 
Lizette?  and  he  did  not  pause.  But  he  bethought  himself 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  49 

that  Kentucky  might  help  him  in  his  search,  so  he  turned 
back  and  called  to  him.  Kentucky  met  him  on  the  side 
walk. 

"You  are  looking  for  her?"  he  queried. 

Murdoch's  face  gave  answer. 

"I  tried  to  take  her  to  the  studio,  but  she  would  not  go. 
I  had  no  idea  what  to  do.  I  brought  her  here,  finally,  be 
cause  it  is  the  only  place  where  I  have  credit  and  I  didn't 
have  a  sou.  I  was — a  little  frightened.  She  seemed  to  be 
— excited.  You  understand.  I  don't  know  what  the 
trouble  is,  but  I  hope  it  isn't  anything  very  serious,  old 
man/' 

"I  neglected  her,"  said  Murdoch,  with  bitter  self-accu 
sation.  "I  neglected  her  while  I  talked  to  some  people 
from  America.  It  was  in  the  Moulin  Eouge,  and  I  left 
her  with  others  while  I  went  and  talked  to  them.  It  had 
been  such  a  happy  evening  up  to  then.  It's  a  shame, 
Kentucky,  and  I'm  a  duffer." 

They  turned  and  went  inside  the  cafe".  On  the  way 
Kentucky  said: 

"She  wanted  to  sit  at  one  of  the  outside  tables — a  par 
ticular  one.  She  seemed  to  have  some  reason  for  wanting 
to  sit  there.  She  said  she  wanted  to  be  there  just  once 
more — or  something  like  that,  but  it's  a  pretty  raw  night 
and  I  got  her  to  come  in.  I  knew  you  would  be  looking 
for  her,  Murdoch.  Here  she  is,  right  over  here." 

But  there  she  was  not,  nor  was  she  anywhere  else 
around  the  cafe.  She  had  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as 
fog  does  before  the  wind.  They  were  astonished.  Ken 
tucky,  particularly,  who  had  just  left  her  sitting  there, 
was  amazed  and  much  distressed. 

For  hours  they  searched  for  her.  They  questioned  the 
police,  and,  along  toward  morning,  they  even  went  to  that 
frightful  place  with  the  ghastly  show-window.  Finally  a 
grave  sergeant  of  police,  who  had,  he  said,  had  much  ex 
perience  with  women,  asked  them  if  they  had  been  back 
to  the  studio  during  the  last  few  hours.  They  had  not 
thought  it  worth  their  while  to  go  there.  It  was,  appar 
ently,  the  studio  and  its  associations  that  she  was  fleeing 
from.  The  sergeant  advised  them  to  go  back.  There 


50  LIZETTE. 

Murdoch  found  her,  wrapped  up  in  her  own  particular 
little  rug,  a  small  bundle  of  misery. 

"Eet  ees  that  I  saw  you  as  you  drove  up  to  M'sieu  Ken 
tucky  on  the  sidewalk,"  she  said,  sobbing.  "I  am  so  vairy 
much  ash-amed;  so  vairy  much  ash-amed.  So  I  could  not 
wait  until  you  came  into  the  cafe,  for  I  knew  that  before 
all  those  people — those  people  whom  we  care  not  at  all 
about — I  should  be  crying.  So  I  hurried  here.  I  sup 
posed  that  you  had  been  with  your  friends  all  the  time 
until  you  went  to  the  cafe,  but  when  I  came  here  I  found 
that  you  had  been  making  the  gr-r-rand  search  for  me — 
that  you  were  so  meeserable.  The  concierge  told  me  that 
you  woke  her  up  and  were  so  meeserable  and  so  much 
frightened!  And  then  I  felt  so — oh,  so  vairy  weecked!  I 
was  afraid  that  if  I  went  out  it  was  that  I  should  miss  you 
when  you  came  in,  and  when  you  did  not  come  in  again  I 
was  afraid  that  I  had  best  go  and  look  for  you,  only  I  did 
not  know  where  it  was  that  I  had  better  go.  And  so  all 
that  there  was  which  I  could  do  was  to  lie  here  and  cry — 
oh,  to  cry  so  vairy  much!  I  am  so  vairy  weecked  to  you! 
So  vairy  weecked  to  you!  And  why  should  it  be  that  you 
should  not  sit  with  your  friends  and  talk  of  the  country 
that  is  your  home,  if  you  should  want  to?  I  know — I 
know  that  it  is  not  for  me  to  have  the  say.  And  if  it  was 
that  it  was  for  me  to  have  the  say,  my  Pudgy,  my  say 
would  be  to  you  that  you  should  always  do  what  thing 
would  be  most  pleasing  to  you.  But  it  is  not  for  me — it 
is  for  you — to  have  the  say.  You  are  so  good  to  me!  Oh, 
Pudgy!  Pudgy!" 

"What  made  you  run  away  from  me?  Was  it  because 
I  was  so  long  in  coming?  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  long.  But 
they  were  old,  old  friends,  and  while  we  talked  of  people 
that  I  know  in  New  York,  and  while  we  talked  of  the  old 
college  days,  I  forgot  how  fast  the  time  was  passing.  Won't 
you  forgive  me,  little  one?  Won't  you?"  pleaded  Mur 
doch. 

"It  is  not  you  but  I  who  should  forgiveness  ask,"  said 
Lizette,  miserably.  "It  is  I,  and,  oh,  I  do!  Please,  please 
forgive  me.  I  must  tell  you  something  that  is,  oh,  so 
vairy  weecked!  But  I  must  tell  you.  You  must  know 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  51 

what  a  small  imbecile  is  this  Lizette,  whom  you  Have  think 
you  love,  before  you  tell  her  that  she  is  forgive." 

And  then  she  poured  out  a  small  confession,  but  by  the 
manner  of  her  telling*  of  it  it  was  plain  to  see  that  she 
thought  she  had  been  most  grievously  at  fault.  She  told 
how  her  soul  had  been  stirred  with  curiosity  to  see  these 
people  from  his  home  so  far  across  the  seas,  and  how  she 
had  induced  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  to  walk  with 
her,  so  that  from  the  other  side  of  a  pillar,  which  partly 
hid  her  from  him,  she  could  stand  for  a  moment  and 
watch  the  party  at  the  table. 

"Oh,  it  was  weecked/'  she  said  over  and  over  to  him, 
while  she  nestled  in  his  arms  there  in  the  studio.  "It  was 
vairy  weecked,  vairy,  vairy  weecked  for  me  to  stand  and 
look  at  you  as  if  I  were  the  spy.  But  so  I  did.  And 
when  I  saw  that  girl — that  girl  who  comes  from  where 
your  home  is — and  saw  you  talk  to  her  and  saw  her  look 
at  you,  I  thought  bad  thoughts.  I  thought  that  when  you 
were  with  her  you  had  forgotten  me.  I  have  the  thought, 
Pudgy,  that  I  hard  worked  to  make  myself  unhappy.  I 
have  the  thought  that  you  have  been  so  vairy  good  to  me 
that  I  tried  most  weeckedly  to  feel  most  meeserable.  It 
is  so  sometimes  with  women.  I  think  I  tried  to  give  my 
self  the  jealousness,  and  I  have  fear,  Pudgy,  that  I  did 
it" 

Then  Murdoch — foolish  Murdoch — told  her  the  little 
story  of  Mary  Markleham.  He  told  her  that  he  had  at 
one  time  thought  he  loved  her;  but  he  added  that  he  had 
only  learned  what  real  love  was  when  he  had  met  and 
known  her — Lizette.  He  told  her  that  before  he  had 
come  to  Paris  that  girl  had  danced  with  him  at  college 
hops  and  worn  his  colors  at  the  college  games,  but  he 
added  that  nowadays  he  did  not  care  to  dance  with  any 
one,  but  only  keep  his  arms  around  her — Lizette.  He 
told  her  that  once  he  had  thought  that  he  could  spend  his 
life  and  be  happy  with  that  other  girl,  but  he  added  that 
now  he  knew  he  could  not,  that  in  all  the  world  there  was 
only  one  woman  for  whom  he  cared  at  all,  and  that  one 
woman  was  Lizette. 

This  made  her  very  happy — then.  This  made  her  nestle 


52  LIZETTE. 

in  his  arms  and  love  him  and  feel  much  pride  that  she 
had  won  him — then.  This  made  her  feel  that  always  he 
would  have  his  arms  around  her  and  that  never  would  he 
look  upon  another  woman — then. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

A    DINNEB    PAETY. 

It  was  a  month  after  the  flight  of  Lizette  from  the  Mou 
lin  Eouge  and  Murdoch's  search  for  her  that  she  told  him 
she  was  glad  it  all  had  happened. 

"If  it  is  that  you  have  the  certainty  that  you  are  glad 
of  me  and  not  sorry  of  the  losing  of  that  other  girl,  I  am 
most  glad  it  happened.  Of  a  certainty  I  rejoice.  For 
never,  Pudgy,  never  once  before  had  you  told  me  that 
you  loved  me — loved  me,  Lizette — as  you  told  it  to  me 
then,  after  you  had  found  me  in  the  studio." 

"I  never  loved  you  so  before,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Then  shall  I  often  run  away,"  said  Lizette,  laughing, 
"so  that  each  time  your  love  will  grow  for  me." 

"You  must  never  run  away  from  me  again,"  said  Mur 
doch. 

There  came  to  him,  as  he  said  this,  a  strange  feeling 
of  uneasiness.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  hint  of  evil  in  the 
future.  She  must  never  run  away  from  him  again! 
That  meant  that  all  their  lives  must  be  together,  and 
that  meant — many  things.  Not  all  his  life  would  be 
spent  in  Paris.  That  he  knew.  He  must  go  home  some 
time.  And  when  he  went  he  must  take  her  with  him. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  He  thought  this  over 
carefully  and  slowly.  He  must  take  her  with  him.  She 
must  be  ever  with  him.  The  real  soul-sorrow  that  had 
bitten  him  that  night  when  he  had  lost  her  for  a  few 
hours  only  taught  him  that  he  did  not  care  to  live  without 
her. 

The  problem  was  a  difficult  one  to  solve,  for  his  people 
in  New  York  had  never  known  Lizette,  and  he  knew  that 
their  opposition  to  his  marriage  to  her  would  be  hard  and 


54  LIZETTE. 

bitter.  But  he  solemnly  made  up  his  mind  fhat  when 
the  time  came  that  marriage  should  take  place  and  that 
where  he  went  she  should  go,  what  he  had  she  should 
have.  He  had  no  thought  that  he  would  ever  return  to 
the  old  home  in  America  for  an  extended  stay.  He  knew, 
without  conceit,  that  he  was  on  the  road  to  success  in  his 
painting,  and  Paris  is  the  place  for  painters — Paris  or 
somewhere  else  in  France.  He  thought  of  speaking  to 
her  of  it,  but  he  did  not.  He  reasoned  that  it  would  be 
better  for  him  to  go  home  first  and  have  the  struggle, 
which  he  knew  would  be  waiting  for  him  there  when  he 
told  his  plans,  before  he  told  her  of  them. 

The  idea  of  a  secret  marriage  he  put  from  Him.  He 
should  never  give  anyone  the  right  to  think  that  when 
he  led  his  loved  one  to  the  altar  he  did  so  with  feelings 
of  any  kind  but  pride.  He  reasoned  foolishly,  but  his 
foolishness  was  thoughtful  foolishness.  He  did  not  speak 
to  her  about  it.  They  were  too  happy  as  they  were  for 
him  to  disturb  the  fine  serenity  of  their  relations.  But 
when  the  time  came — then  he  would  speak  to  her  and  tell 
in  whispered  words  about  his  plans  for  her.  Certainly  he 
should  take  her  to  New  York.  She  surely  deserved  that 
recognition.  He  should  take  her  to  New  York  that  she 
might  see  America — that  land  which  was  to  her  a  land 
of  wonders — so  that  the  people  in  America  whom  he  knew 
should  see  her  and  know  how  proud  and  glad  he  was  to 
call  her  wife.  On  the  day — the  very  day — that  his  work 
in  Paris  ended,  he  would  tell  her  all  these  things.  How 
happy  she  would  be!  He  smiled  softly  as  he  thought 
of  it. 

His  progress  in  his  work  was  exceptional.  He  was  well 
liked  by  his  fellow  students^  though  one  could  not  have 
called  him  a  popular  man.  He  was  too  grave  and  earnest, 
too  little  given  to  merriment  for  that.  But  with  the  mas 
ters  he  was  popular.  His  art  was  unmistakable.  There 
was  a  firmness  of  purpose  in  what  he  did,  a  certainty  in 
his  conceptions  of  his  studies  and  a  sureness  in  his  way 
of  painting  them,  that  few  students  showed.  He  won 
the  Prix  des  Beaux  Arts  and  rushed  home  to  tell  of  it.  It 
was  his  picture,  "Parting,"  that  took  the  honors,  and 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  55 

surely  none  but  he  must  take  the  news  to  her.  The 
other  students  regarded  him  with  astonishment.  He  did 
not  linger  to  receive  their  high  congratulations.  Some 
shook  their  heads  and  smiled.  Murdoch's  devotion  had 
not  passed  unnoticed  in  the  Quarter.  It  was  too  unusual. 
She  was  like  an  elf  gone  mad  with  joy  when  he  told  her 
of  the  great  news.  Ah!  But  that  was  something!  To 
carry  off  the  Beaux  Arts!  Yes!  And  Pudgy — did  he 
know  that  she  had  posed  for  "Parting?"  Did  he  remem 
ber?  Or  had  the  memory  gone  from  him  in  his  joy?  It 
had  not  gone  from  him?  That  was  very  well. 

She  insisted  on  a  celebration.  They  had  etuck  close  at 
home  since  the  night  when  their  evening  at  the  Moulin 
Rouge  had  had  so  bad  an  ending.  Now  they  must  cele 
brate.  He  agreed  and  handed  her  a  hundred  franc  note, 
and  told  her  that  she  must  be  cashier.  She  was  over 
whelmed,  for  a  hundred  francs  is  almost  twenty  dollars. 
Tiens !  But  it  was  wonderful,  this  boy  of  hers  who  won 
great  prizes  and  then  spent  such  sums  in  celebration  of  his 
victories!  But  she  agreed.  Indeed  only  one  person  in 
all  Paris  was  happier  that  afternoon  than  was  John  Mur 
doch,  and  that  person  was  Lizette.  V&vla!  She  was 
proud  of  himl 

Lizette  was  lost  in  deep  and  solemn  thought.  It  was  a 
problem  which  must  be  carefully  considered — this  dinner 
of  the  celebration.  At  last  she  spoke: 

"Yais,"  she  said,  slowly,  "it  is  that  we  must  have  the 
great  big  fun?  Is  it  not  so?  It  is  so.  We  must  take  with  us 
M'sieu  Kaintucky.  He  has  not  many  of  the  good  times, 
unless  he  gets  them  with  the  absinthe,  which  is  bad.  We 
have  so  much  of  happiness — we  can  surely  spare  some 
pieces  of  it  to  Kaintucky.  It  is  that  we  must  drive  around 
and  get  him,  and  take  him  with  us/' 

And  it  was  that  they  did  drive  around  to  get  him,  and 
that  his  joy  was  great.  Murdoch  decided  on  a  little 
restaurant  not  far  up  the  Seine.  Lizette  loved  the  water, 
although  she  knew  it  only  from  the  little  steamboats  that 
ply  up  and  down  the  muddy  stream  that  splits  Paris  into 
halves,  and  this  plan  greatly  pleased  her. 

The  steamboat  landing  from  which  they  were  to  begin 


56  LIZETTE. 

their  water  journey  was  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  of  the 
Gardens  of  the  Tuilleries.  A  king  had  had  it  built  for  the 
landing  place  of  his  royal  barge.  Now  the  two-sou  steam 
boats  stopped  at  it.  And  as  Lizette  stepped  from  it  to  the 
grimy  little  steamer,  Murdoch  thought  that  she  was  fitted 
to  its  ancient  uses. 

A  loud  voice  called  his  name  and  made  him  turn  as  they 
were  about  to  board  the  boat.  It  was  Fitzpatrick's  voice, 
and  he  stood  there  at  the  top  of  the  river  wall,  puffing  and 
blowing  as  a  man  will  after  he  has  chased  a  hurrying 
Paris  cab  for  two  or  three  long  blocks. 

Murdoch  stepped  back  from  the  gang-plank  and 
Lizette  and  Kentucky  followed  to  the  dock  just  as  the 
little  steamer,  with  much  ado,  started  on  its  journey. 

"What  upon  earth  are  you  in  Paris  for?"  Murdoch 
shouted  to  the  figure  on  the  wall. 

"I'm  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  and  I'm  looking  for  a 
friend  who  wants  to  eat,"  said  Fitzpatrick. 

Lizette  went  close  to  Murdoch  and  whispered  in  her 
happiness,  so  loud  that  they  all  heard: 

"And  he,  Pudgy,"  she  said  with  earnestness.  "And  he. 
He  is  far  away  from  home.  He  has  just  come  here.  Can 
not  he  go  with  us,  too,  and  also  have  the  happiness?  We 
must  have  many.  I  have  so  much  to  spend!" 

"When  did  you  get  in,  Fitzpatrick?"  Murdoch  asked. 

"Just  now." 

"Got  anything  to  do?" 

"Not  a  thing  on  earth  except  to  see  you  and  your 
friends.  How  are  you.  Hip!  Hip!  for  the  banker's  son 
that  won  the  prize  of  honor.  I  saw  it  in  the  "Figaro," 
not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Come  along  and  eat  with  us,  in  celebration  of  it," 
said  Murdoch.  "We're  going  to  a  little  place  I  know  of 
up  the  river.  Come  on." 

"I'll  do  it.  Murdy,  you're  a  wonder.  We're  all  proud 
of  yon.  You  do  me  proud.  If  you  do  me  any  prouder  we 
shall  miss  the  next  boat.  I've  already  made  you  miss  one; 
besides,  I'm  hungry.  Come  on." 

They  went. 

The  table  was  on  a  balcony  overlooking  the  river,  which 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  57 

was  bright  with  small  boats  and  gaily  decorated  little 
steamers.  On  the  terrace  between  the  balcony  and  the 
river  the  French  love  for  gas-pipe  arches  dotted  with 
colored  globes  had  had  full  play.  As  darkness  came  these 
little  lights  made  the  lawn  look  bright  and  lively.  This 
little  restaurant  is  one  of  the  places  strangers  know  not  of, 
but  in  good  weather  its  tables  are  always  full.  Murdoch 
had  been  there  only  a  few  times,  but  the  omnipresent  hat- 
buyer  seemed  perfectly  at  home  there.  He  was  a  never- 
failing  source  of  wonder  to  Lizette.  While  the  busy, 
happy  little  hat-buyer  had  disappeared  to  have  a  consul 
tation  with  the  chef,  whom  he  boldly  claimed  as  a  friend, 
she  expressed  her  wonder  at  him. 

"Some  day,"  said  Murdoch,  "I  shall  take  you  to  America 
where  such  strange  things  grow/' 

She  looked  quickly  at  him  and  smiled.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  said  that  to  her. 

Lizette  gave  the  order  for  the  dinner  to  the  chef  himself, 
not  to  any  waiter.  The  monarch  of  the  kitchen  could 
not  think  of  hearing  what  Fitzpatrick's  friends  wished  to 
eat,  except  from  their  own  mouths. 

It  was  a  merry  dinner.  It  began  at  half-past  six,  and 
ten  o'clock  had  come  before  it  was  ended.  Lizette  was 
hostess  and  was  overwhelmed  by  the  great  dignity.  With 
her  own  hands  she  served  the  dishes.  It  was  agreed  that 
Murdoch  must  sit  still  and  look  as  pretty  as  he  could. 

It  was  the  first  time  Lizette  had  ever  seen  Fitzpatrick 
for  more  than  a  moment  at  a  time,  and  the  breezy  little 
man  delighted  her.  She  pleased  him,  greatly,  too,  and 
her  English  filled  him  with  a  wild  joy  which  was  not  ap 
proached  'by  Lizette's  puzzled  pleasure  in  his  Irish-French. 
Kentucky  was  happy  and  contented.  He  loved  that  pair 
— Lizette  and  Murdoch — and  gazed  proudly  at  them  as  if 
they  were  his  children.  Ah!  If  he  had  known  the  truth 
that  night,  as  he  learned  about  it  long  afterward,  what 
a  dinner  that  would  have  been  for  him.  If  to  the  happi 
ness  of  Murdoch's  great  success  could  have  been  added, 
then,  the  knowledge  of  that  other  happiness,  the  news 
of  which  would  sometime  come,  when  it  was  almost  too 
late  to  please  him,  how  overflowing  would  have  been  the 


58  LIZETTE. 

cup  of  joy  of  poor  Kentucky.  The  failure  of  his  youthful 
hopes  of  great  success  would  not  have  mattered.  The 
years  of  disappointment  which  he  had  even  then  passed 
through  and  all  the  sorrows  of  his  aimless,  wasted  life, 
would  have  rested  light  as  thistle-down  upon  the  shoulders 
that  were  that  night  stooped  by  them  and,  later,  be 
came  so  bent  and  burdened  by  them  that  the  effort  of  the 
bearing  almost  bore  them  down. 

But  Kentucky  was  most  happy  this  night,  and  so  spar 
ing  of  the  wine  that  he  lost  none  of  all  the  charm  of  the 
affair. 

Each  year  two  baseball  nines  were,  even  then,  organized 
among  the  American  students  in  Paris.  The  games  were 
not  such  great  affairs  as  nowadays  they  are,  but  there  was 
much  fun  in  them.  Kentucky  asked  Murdoch  if  he  had 
been  asked  to  play.  He  told  of  the  last  year's  game, 

"I  don't  believe  the  game  this  year  will  amount  to 
much,"  he  said,  "but  there  have  been  some  great  games 
in  the  past.  Harvey  was  the  best  player  in  Paris.  He 
went  home  this  year.  There  was  always  a  fight  between 
the  managers  of  both  nines  to  get  Harvey.  The  funny 
thing  about  it  was  that  Harvey  had  a  wooden  leg." 

"Why  I  knew  Harvey,"  said  Murdoch.  "He  limped, 
but  he  couldn't  have  had  a  wooden  leg." 

"Yes,  he  had,"  said  Kentucky,  "and  he's  got  one  yet. 
That  was  another  funny  thing  about  it.  No  one  dreamed 
that  he  had  a  wooden  leg.  He  limped  a  little,  but  no  one 
would  dream,  to  see  him  walk,  that  he  had  actually  lost  a 
leg.  It  had  been  cut  off  in  a  railroad  accident  in  Ameri 
ca,  when  he  was  about  eighteen  or  so,  and  he  handled 
the  artificial  substitute  better  than  most  men  can  use 
their  real  ones.  He  showed  that  there  was  something 
radically  wrong  with  him  when  he  went  up  and  down 
stairs,  but  at  other  times  he  merely  seemed  to  have  a 
peculiarity  in  his  gait,  and  not  much  of  one  at  that.  And 
on  level  ground  he  could  run  like  a  deer.  The  day  for 
the  great  game  came.  We  had  Harvey  for  our  nine, 
which  was  otherwise  pretty  weak.  When  we  went  into 
the  field  in  the  ninth,  we  felt  reasonably  certain  that  we 
should  be  beaten.  Harvey  was  our  only  hope,  and  he  had 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  59 

been  playing  the  worst  kind  of  ball.  All  our  fellows  felt 
down  in  the  dumps.  There  were  three  men  on  bases 
when  Harvey  showed  what  stuff  he  was  made  of.  Some 
of  the  fellows  thought  he  had  been  soldiering,  but  they 
never  charged  him  with  such  a  thing  again.  As  I  said, 
they  had  three  on  bases,  just  waiting  for  a  good  hit  to 
take  'em  home.  If  they  got  there  we  were  done.  We 
knew  that.  They  had  their  very  best  batsman  at  the  plate. 
Harvey  was  playing  centre  field.  That  fellow  at  the  bat 
was  a  wonder  and  we  knew  it.  He  made  a  specialty  of 
hot  grounders — and  they  were  hot  ones.  There  wasn't  a 
man  in  our  crowd  that  would  think  of  trying  to  stop  one 
of  them.  They  would  have  burned  your  hands  right  off 
you.  Well,  he  hit  one  out  toward  center  field,  wher? 
Harvey  was  standing.  You  could  hear  it  hum.  Harvey 
didn't  reach  for  it  and  no  one  blamed  him.  But  he  did 
hold  out  his  wooden  leg  in  front  of  it.  The  ball  struck 
that  wooden  leg  with  the  noise  of  a  stone  hitting  a  board 
fence  and  went  straight  up  into  the  air.  Harvey  caught 
it  neatly  and  sent  it  home  in  time  to  make  a  double  play 
— and  we  won  the  game. 

"Well,  that  night  the  fellows  and  the  girls  all  gathered 
at  the  Domperille  to  talk  about  the  game.  Percy  Plum- 
mer  was  telling  the  story  of  our  victory,  and  he  got  to  the 
part  where  Harvey  saved  the  game  for  us.  'Harvey/  he 
said  proudly,  'just  stuck  his  leg  out  for  that  grounder,  and 
it  hit  it  with  the  noise  of  a  hammer  on  a  timber.  He 
caught  it  as  it  came  down,  and  sent  it  home  and  saved 
the  game  for  us.' 

"Percy  expected  everyone  to  laugh.  But  you  see  there 
were  not  half  a  dozen  people  in  Paris  who  dreamed  that 
Harvey  had  a  wooden  leg,  outside  of  our  little  crowd,  that 
knew  him  well.  Some  of  the  girls  even  wasted  pity  on 
him,  and  two  or  three  of  them  exclaimed,  in  chorus,  'Oh, 
poor  Mr.  Harvey!  How  it  must  have  hurt  him!'  'What,' 
said  Percy.^  'Didn't  you  know  that  Harvey  had  a  wooden 
leg?'  'Oh!  Go  on,'  or  words  to  that  effect,  was  the  incredu 
lous  reply  from  pretty  nearly  every  one,  who  was  listening. 
Well,  Percy  proposed  to  prove  it.  He  pulled  himself  to 
gether  and  kicked  Harvey's  leg  with  all  the  force  that 


60  LIZETTE. 

there  was  in  him,  just  to  show  them  that  he  was  right. 
But — he  didn't  kick  the  wooden  leg;  he  kicked  the  other 
one.  They  have  never  spoken  from  that  day  to  this/' 

Fitzpatrick  demanded  more.  Kentucky  was  plainly 
pleased  hy  the  success  his  little  tale  had  made  at  this  most 
sumptuous  feast. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Darcy  and  Eaton?"  he  asked 
Murdoch. 

"No,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Well,"  they  were  inseparables.  When  they  first  came 
to  Paris  they  each  had  a  little  money  and  they  both  had 
the  same  old  hallucination  that  the  little  money  would  last 
forever.  They  always  traveled  together  and  it  was  not 
very  long  before  they  realized  that  something  must  be 
done.  It  was  plain  that  they  must  pull  in  their  horns  or 
starve  to  death  before  their  next  remittance  came. 

"They  talked  this  over  carefully  and  decided  to  re 
trench.  And  right  there,  for  the  first  time  and  the  last 
time  in  the  lives  of  either  one  of  them,  so  far  as  I  know, 
they  showed  sense.  They  found  a  little  studio,  over  back 
of  where  the  Boullier  is  now,  and  they  counted  up  their 
cash.  They  had  enough  to  pay  a  full  year's  rental  in  ad 
vance,  and  they  did  it.  Their  idea  was,  that  if  the  impos 
sible  should  happen — that  is,  if  they  should  quarrel — they 
would  still  have  the  year's  rent  paid  and  thus  the  quarrel 
could  not  possibly  financially  discommode  either  one  of 
them.  Together,  they  could  get  along  somehow.  Apart, 
they  would  certainly  go  under. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  was  because  they  had  talked 
about  it  so  much  or  not,  but  the  quarrel  finally  came.  I 
had  heard  nothing  of  it  when  I  went  up  to  see  them  one 
day.  Darcy,  you  know,  was  a  sculptor,  and  Eaton  painted, 
principally  in  water  colors. 

"When  I  went  into  the  studio,  I  saw  at  on^e  that  there 
was  something  wrong  there.  Darcy's  mass  was  of  sculptor's 
clay  stopped  at  the  middle  of  the  floor,  where  there  was  a 
wide  white  mark,  which  went  all  the  way  across  the  room. 
Eaton's  side  of  the  room  was  clean  and  neat.  I  spoke  to 
Eaton  first,  as  he  was  nearest  to  me.  Then  I  nodded  to 
Darcy.  I  was  never  more  surprised  in  my  life.  He 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  61 

looked  stonily  above  and  beyond  my  head,  and  paid  not 
the  least  attention  to  me.  This  was  rather  hard  on  me, 
for  I  had  done  a  number  of  things  to  help  the  boy  when 
he  had  first  come  to  Paris.  You  know  I  was  an  old 
timer,  even  then,  and  I  could  introduce  fellows  and  show 
them  the  ropes,  even  if  I  couldn't  paint,  myself.  Well,  I 
felt  bad  about  his  cutting  me.  It  seemed  a  pity.  But 
the  Paris  art  student  is  a  funny  creature,  anyhow.  There 
was  nothing  I  could  say  or  do.  I  talked  a  minute  with 
Eaton  and  went  away. 

"The  place  was  up  three  or  four  flights  of  stairs — I  for 
get  just  how  many — and  I  had  scarcely  started  on  the 
second  flight  from  the  top  when  I  heard  somebody  calling 
my  name.  I  looked  back,  and  there  was  Darcy,  the  man 
who  had  just  cut  me.  At  first  I  paid  no  attention  to  his 
calls,  but  at  last  I  stopped  and  did  my  best  to  glare  glassily 
at  him.  It  was  no  use.  The  boy's  face  showed  that  he 
was  really  glad  to  see  me,  and,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  I 
had  to  take  it. 

"  'What's  the  matter  with  you?'  I  asked,  before  he  had 
a  chance  to  speak.  • 

"I  never  saw  an  expression  of  more  completely  injured 
innocence  on  the  face  of  any  man  than  his  wore,  when  he 
answered,  'What's  the  matter  with  me?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Why  don't  you  come  in  to  see  a  fellow  when 
you  come  up  to  the  studio?' 

"  'Why,  you  blithering  idiot,'  I  said,  'I  have  just  been  up 
to  see  you  and  when  I  tried  to  say  hello,  you  cut  me  dead.' 

"  'The  trouble  is,'  he  answered,  'that  you  stayed  in 
Eaton's  part  of  the  studio.  I  make  it  a  point  not  to  see 
any  one  who  is  on  his  side  of  the  white  line  which  runs 
through  the  middle  of  the  room.  Eaton  and  I  don't  speak, 
you  know.  We've  quarreled.  Yes,  indeed.  Next  time 
you  come  up  come  over  on  my  side  of  the  line  and  every- 
thing5!!  be  all  right.  Eaton  won't  speak  to  you,  then. 
I'm  glad  you  understand  about  it  now.  I  thought  you 
had  heard  about  it  before.' 

"And  after  that  every  time  I  went  up  there  to  see  those 
two  boys  I  could  talk  to  one  of  them  on  one  side  of  the 
line  and  to  the  other  of  them  on  the  other  side  of  the  line. 


62  IIZETTE. 

But  the  minute  I  stepped  across  that  line  the  fellow  on 
the  other  side  of  it  became  as  oblivious  of  my  presence  as 
if  I  had  not  been  on  the  earth.  I  tried  to  fool  'em  by 
sneaking  across  when  they  were  not  looking,  and  getting 
them  very  much  interested  in  something  I  was  saying,  and 
then  speaking  to  them.  But  I  never  worked  it  once.  I 
don't  know  whether  they  ever  made  it  up  or  not.  But 
they  had  to  live  the  year  out  together  in  the  same  room, 
anyway,  for  they  had  paid  a  year's  rent  in  advance." 

When  it  had  been  agreed  that  Lizette  should  order  din 
ner,  Murdoch  had  especially  stipulated  that  it  should  be 
his  privilege  to  order  the  dessert,  a  demand  which  greatly 
mystified  Lizette,  but  which  she  yielded  to,  of  course.  It 
somewhat  surprised  her  to  have  him  go  into  the  small 
hotel  to  order  it;  but  this  he  did,  and  what  he  did  was 
right,  in  her  eyes.  While  the  dinner  was  in  progress  and 
while  the  others  were  telling  tales  between  the  courses,  he 
sometimes  found  her  hand  waiting  for  him  beneath  the 
white  and  ample  folds  of  the  table  cloth,  and  constantly 
they  kept  up  a  telegraphic  communication  with  their  feet 
under  the  table.  He  said  very  little,  except  to  her,  and 
what  he  said  to  her  was  mostly  with  his  eyes. 

By  and  by,  he  asked  Fitzpatrick  where  he  had  been  in 
America. 

"Oh,  only  in  little  old  New  York.  It's  good  enough 
for  me.  Say,  as  a  town,  wouldn't  that  one  make  Paris 
sick?  As  a  town,  I  mean — a  place  to  really  do  business 
in." 

Here  he  leaned  back  luxuriously  in  his  chair  and  sur 
veyed  the  table  and  all  the  people  at  it  with  an  air  that 
meant  he  was  content  with  all  the  world.  Finally  he  let 
his  kindly  little  eyes  rest  on  Lizette's  face. 

"But  Miss — Miss,"  he  began  and  stammered. 

"Lizette,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  thanking  her  with  a  nod,  "there  is 
nothing  in  New  York  that  will  equal  this,"  and  he  swept 
his  hand  toward  the  restaurant  and  the  river.  "And,  may 
I  add,"  he  went  on,  with  Irish  blarney,  "that  there  is 
nothing  in  New  York  which  will  compete  wifh  the  beauty 
of  the  Parisiennes,  of  whom  you  are  the  lovely  representa- 


A  DINNER  PARTI.  63 

rive  here  to-night.  The  hostess,  the  dinner,  the  sur 
roundings  are — simply  great.  Murdoch,  you're  a  lucky 
man." 

Then  he  turned  to  Murdoch. 

"By  the  way,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "I  saw  your  governor 
while  I  was  in  New  York/' 

Murdoch  was  all  interest  at  once. 

"Dear  old  governor,"  he  said.  "How  was  he  looking? 
I  got  a  letter  from  him  the  other  day  in  which  he  said 
everything  was  all  right.  But  his  letters  are  mighty  un 
satisfactory.  They  are  about  as  lengthy  as  his  endorse 
ment  on  a  check.  His  health,  business  affairs  and  every 
thing  else  in  America  which  would  naturally  interest  me 
are  generally  summed  up  in  two  words,  'All  right/  " 

"Well,  that  just  about  describes  the  situation,  so  far 
as  I  could  see,"  Fitzpatrick  said.  "He  said  you  were  not 
a  wonder  at  letter  writing,  either.  There's  no  doubt 
about  his  business  affairs  being  as  right  as  anything.  I 
understand  that  he  pulled  out  a  quarter  of  a  million  in 
that  last  big  railroad  flurry,  and  I  am  told  that  neither  he 
nor  his  has  any  reason  to  go  hungry.  He's  mighty  fond 
of  you,  old  chap.  Of  course,  you  know  that.  He  ques 
tioned  me  very  closely  about  you  when  he  found  that  I 
had  met  you  in  Paris.  He'll  be  tickled  to  death  over  your 
getting  this  prize.  I  don't  believe  he  quite  understands 
why  upon  earth  you  should  want  to  be  a  painter,  though, 
and  he  intimated  to  me  that  when  you  came  back  to 
America  you'd  probably  take  his  place  in  the  bank,  and, 
I  suppose,  his  millions  also  in  the  end." 

"Ees  eet  zat  your  father  is  so  vairy  reech,  Pudgy?" 
asked  Lizette,  with  wondering  eyes.  "Millions!  Mon 
Dieu!  Think  what  you  will  do  when  you  are  reech." 

"He'll  probably  buy  his  own  pictures,"  said  Fitzpatrick. 
"It  will  never  do  for  a  respectable  American  banker  to 
have  pictures  from  his  brush  hanging  in  such  common 
places  as  the  Luxembourg  and  other  galleries  of  Europe." 

"If  anybody  buys  'em,  it  probably  will  be  me,"  said 
Murdoch,  laughing. 

"Seriously,  old  chap,"  went  on  Fitzpatrick,  "when  are 
you  going  back  to  America?  I  judged  from  what  your 


64  LIZETTE. 

father  said  that  it  might  be  very  soon.  When  shall  you 
have  finished  your  course?" 

There  was  nothing  about  this  question  which  ought  to 
have  been  disturbing  to  anyone  around  the  table.  But  it 
certainly  did  disturb  Murdoch,  and  it  certainly  did  disturb 
Lizette.  Murdoch  had  not  thought,  definitely,  about  go 
ing  home.  He  had  been  living  in  a  dream — a  delightful 
dream  of  happiness.  He  loved  his  work,  and  he  worked 
hard  at  it.  That  his  father  might  ever  want  him  to  re 
turn  to  America,  and  take  his  own  place  as  manager  of 
the  bank,  was  a  possibility  which  he  supposed  had  been 
killed  when  he  had  chosen  art  as  his  profession.  The 
problems  which  confront  most  young  artists  in  Paris  had 
not  confronted  him.  He  had  had  no  need  to  worry  about 
money.  And  for  this  very  reason,  perhaps — this  feeling 
of  security — the  knowledge  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
paint  and  that  he  would  never  have  to  worry  about  selling 
what  he  painted,  if  the  people  did  not  want  to  buy,  had 
made  it  easier  than  it  otherwise  would  have  been  for  him 
to  do  good  work  and  do  thorough  work.  Pot-boiling  had 
not  been  his  portion.  He  was  far  from  being  an  extrava 
gant  man,  but  what  he  needed  he  had  ample  money  to 
obtain.  Both  he  and  Lizette  were  economical  in  their 
expenditures,  she  sometimes  so  much  so  that  it  made  him 
laugh,  but  it  had  not  been  necessary,  in  order  for  them  to 
live,  for  them  to  resort  to  any  of  those  ingenious  subter 
fuges  which  are  so  interesting  to  read  about  in  novels,  but 
which  are  really  hard  upon  and  seriously  retard  the 
progress  of  some  of  the  art  students  in  Paris. 

The  source  of  all  these  comfortable  circumstances  had 
not  been  brought  closely  to  his  mind  for  some  time  until 
Fitzpatrick  spoke  about  the  fact  that  his  father  expected 
him  to  go  back  to  New  York  and  take  his  hereditary  place 
at  the  head  of  the  banking  house  of  the  Murdochs.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  if  his  father  really  expected  that,  it 
must  be  that  he  had  wholly  failed  to  take  the  art  work 
which  the  son  was  doing  in  Paris  seriously.  While  he 
was  sitting  there  at  that  little  restaurant  on  the  Seine,  a 
picture  of  the  president'?  room  at  the  bank,  with  its  dark 
woodwork  and  its  solemn  chairs  and  its  massive  desk, 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  65 

came  'back  to  him  with  intense  vividness.  The  highly 
polished  letter  cabinet  and  the  private  copying  press  with 
its  little  safe  for  private  letter  books,  the  occasional,  far- 
off  tinkle  of  the  bell  when  the  handle  under  the  desk 
should  be  pulled,  the  answering  appearance  of  a  sedate 
clerk  who  knew  just  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it,  almost 
without  being  told  at  all — all  these  things  were  plain  be 
fore  him.  He  tried  to  imagine  himself  sitting  in  that 
chair,  writing  on  that  desk,  ringing  that  bell,  and  trans 
acting  the  business  of  the  bank.  The  picture  was  so  in 
congruous  to  his  present  surroundings  and  the  life  that 
had  been  his  among  them,  that  his  imagination  was  not 
vivid  enough  to  conjure  it  up  with  any  convincing  look 
of  reality.  There,  at  that  restaurant,  on  the  Seine,  with 
Lizette's  little  hand  pressing  his  beneath  the  table  cloth, 
with  the  colored  gas-lamps  arching  overhead  and  with 
Fitzpatrick  and  Kentucky  jabbering  about  the  Latin 
Quarter,  he  could  not  realize  that  this  other  and  different 
life  could  possibly  be  expected  of  him  seriously  by  any 
one.  It  sobered  him  and  took  all  the  smiles  away  from 
him  so  thoroughly  that  Lizette,  quick  in  sympathetic  in 
tuition,  knew  at  once  that  there  were  thoughts  in  that 
great  head  of  Pudgy's  which  were  solemn,  and  instantly 
she  became  solemn,  too.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  his  plate 
to  which  they  had  fallen,  in  answer  to  a  question  from  the 
little  one.  There  was  a  worried  little  smile  on  her  charm 
ing  face,  and  he  answered  it  as  best  he  could  with  another 
one  which  had  more  of  worry  in  it  than  had  hers. 

"It  is  that  you  said  that  you,  yourself,  were  to  order 
of  the  dessert,  Pudgy,"  she  said  to  him.  "Well,  if  it  is 
that  it  is  so,  it  would  be  right  that  you  should  order  it  at 
the  once.  For  we  have  already  reached  almost  the  time  for 
it" 

"Yes,"  said  Murdoch,  gravely,  "it  is  that  the  dessert 
shall  ordered  be  as  soon  as  it  is  that  I,  with  haste,  can 
order  it.  Your  English  is  almost  good  enough  to  eat  for 
dessert,  Lizette." 

"It  surely  is  that  it  is  you  that  of  it  must  not  make  fun," 
said  Lizette,  with  much  mock  reproach,  which  ended  in  one 
of  her  rippling  laughs — one  of  those  laughs  which  ever 


66  LIZETTE. 

reminded  Murdoch  of  the  tinkling  of  the  brook  over  the 
green  stones  at  Bois  le  Roi,  in  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleu. 
No  one  did  and  no  one  ever  can  again  laugh  in  a  way 
that  will  be  as  delightful  to  the  ears  of  John  Murdoch 
as  were  those  liquid  trills  and  quavers  which  meant  in  the 
old  days  that  Lizette  was  happy.  Poor  Lizette!  Poor 
little  Lizette!  She  was  ever  happy  in  those  days. 

So  Murdoch  went  away  to  order  the  dessert.  There 
was  an  air  of  mystery  about  his  going  which  caused  vast 
speculation  on  the  part  of  those  who  remained  at  the 
table.  Wild  were  the  guesses  as  to  what  was  likely  to 
appear  upon  the  table  as  the  result  of  his  absence,  and 
great  was  the  delight  of  Lizette,  when  she  heard  what  the 
two  men  said  about  her  idol  while  he  was  away.  At  last 
he  returned.  He  was  followed  by  the  waiter.  When  I 
record  the  fact  that  this  waiter's  name  was  Mola,  there 
may  be  those  among  the  readers  of  this  story  who  will 
know  where  the  restaurant  was  (and  still  is)  and  who  will 
be  able  to  bring  to  their  minds'  eyes  that  strange  and 
devilish  twinkle  which  lurked  in  those  of  Mola  as  he 
approached. 

He  bore  on  a  tray  four  covered  dishes. 

"It's  hot  pudding/'  said  Kentucky. 

"It's  pork  and  beans/'  said  Fitzpatrick. 

But  little  Lizette  said  never  a  word.  Her  eyes  turned 
from  the  tray  in  Mola's  hands  to  the  eyes  of  her  beloved 
and  stopped  there,  happily,  as  they  ever  did  when  his 
sought  hers. 

"This  one,"  said  Murdoch,  turning  away  from  her  to 
direct  the  great  business  in  hand  and  pointing  out  one 
particular  covered  dish,  "is  for  you,'  Lizette.  I  selected 
this  dessert  because  I  won  the  Prix  d'Honneur  and  you 
were  so  happy  over  it.  I  hope  that  you  will  like  it. 

Murdoch  looked  down  at  the  covered  plate  which  had 
been  placed  before  her,  while  Mola  placed  the  other  three. 
Her  ever  obedient  eyes  followed  his.  What  he  said  was  not 
at  all  in  the  nature  of  a  speech.  He  was  much  embarrassed, 
and  he  hesitated  as  he  tried  to  find  his  words. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  fellows  are  here  to-day/'  said 
Murdoch.  "There  isn't  any  one*else  whom  I  would  care  to 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  67 

have  here.  You  chaps  both  know  what  this  little  girl 
means  to  me.  You  know  that  whatsoever  small  success  I 
have  made  since  I  have  been  here  in  Paris  has  been  due 
more  to  her  than  it  has  to  me.  She  has  been  the  animating 
cause  of  all  the  hard  work  I  have  done  since  I  have  been 
here.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  I  am  sure  that  instead  of 
working  hard  and  earnestly,  as  I  have  worked,  I  should 
have  loafed  and  fiddled  my  time  away.  She  has  given  me 
all  that  I  have  gained.  Perhaps  that  may  not  be  much  in 
the  eyes  of  other  people,  but  it  is  a  great  deal  in  my  eyes — 
and  she  has  given  it  all  to  me." 

Lizette's  face  was  carmine. 

"Pudgy!"  she  said  in  protest,  softly. 

"It  is  all  true,"  Murdoch  went  on.  "But  I  have  never 
given  her  anything.  We  have  lived  our  little  lives,  and 
had  our  little  sorrows  and  big  joys.  The  many  joys  have 
been  her  doings;  the  sorrows  have,  every  one,  been  my 
fault.  I  don't  believe  that  I  have  made  Lizette  think  that 
I  have  been  selfish  or  ungrateful,  but  I  have  surely  not 
shown  my  gratitude  in  many  ways  which  I  might  have 
found  to  show  it.  To-day,  after  I  had  won  the  prize,  I 
wanted  to  do  something  for  Lizette.  Perhaps  it  might 
have  been  better  for  me  to  have  done  it  when  we  were 
alone,  but  you  fellows  know  us  both,  and  like  us,  I  guess. 
It  has  been  very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  take  dinner  with 
us.  And  so — and  so — let  us  go  on  with  our  dessert." 

His  voice  faltered  perceptibly  before  he  stopped.  They 
all  were  mystified,  and  Lizette  especially  so.  During  all 
of  his  little  harangue  Murdoch  had  evidently  been  more 
or  less  deeply  affected.  His  speech  had  often  been  halt 
ing.  The  enthusiastic  interruptions  which  Fitzpatrick 
had  thrown  at  him  had  not  bothered  him  at  all,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  had  been  easy  for  the  others  to  see  that 
it  had  often  been  hard  for  him  to  finish  what  he  had 
wanted  to  say  when  he  began.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
began  with  real  nervousness  to  finger  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  to  break  off  little  pieces  of  the  long  bread-sticks, 
which  form  a  very  essential  part  of  the  meal  at  the  little 
restaurant  on  the  Seine. 

Perhaps  because  he  had  told  them  to  go  on  with  their 


68  LIZETTE. 

• 

dessert,  not  one  at  the  table  touched  his  plate  or  the  cover 
on  it.  All  the  other  diners  had  left  the  little  terrace.  It 
was  fully  ten  o'clock  and  some  of  the  gas  lamps  had  been 
turned  out.  Presently  Murdoch  arose  and,  going  around 
behind  Lizette,  himself  lifted  the  cover  from  her  plate. 

What  followed  made  Murdoch  think  of  the  first  Christ 
mas  he  could  remember.  There  had  been  one  thing,  and 
only  one,  that  he  had  wanted.  His  father  had  not  been  so 
rich  in  those  days  and  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in 
business  to  think  much  about  the  small  things  of  his  son's 
life.  And  John  had  never  known  a  mother.  It  was  a 
big  bob-sled  coaster  that  he  wanted  that  Christmas.  His 
father  lived  near  the  long  hill  on  Park  avenue,  in  those 
days,  and  there  were  boys  in  the  neighborhood  who  had 
such  sleds,  but,  while  he  longed  for  one,  he  had  no  idea 
that  even  Santa  Glaus  would  think  of  it  and  give  him 
one.  He  had  never  mentioned  his  boyish  longing  to  a 
soul.  He  was  a  very  generous  little  "boy,  though,  and  he 
had  thought  of  everybody  and,  so  far  as  his  little  means 
would  go,  had  purchased  for  each  member  of  the  family 
and  all  the  servants  what  he  thought  they  wanted  most. 

The  Christmas  tree  had  been  his  own  idea;  he  had 
himself  arranged  it,  hanging  all  the  little  presents  on  the 
tree.  He  expected  all  these  things  to  come  as  a  complete 
surprise  to  everyone,  although  he  had  had  the  back-parlor 
doors  closed  tightly  all  the  afternoon,  while  he  arranged 
his  little  gifts  upon  the  tree.  Then  he  went  to  dinner. 
After  dinner  he  threw  open  the  folding  doors,  so  that  the 
crowd  might  see  what  had  been  prepared  for  them.  He 
had  completely  forgotten  thoughts  of  gifts  for  himself, 
while  he  was  making  these  arrangements,  but  the  first 
thing  that  he  saw  after  he  had  opened  those  doors  was 
the  coveted  bob-sled,  which  had  been  carried  in  without 
his  knowledge  and  placed  at  the  very  bottom  of  that  tree. 
He  was  like  a  small  boy  petrified.  He  could  not  speak 
and  he  could  not  move.  The  surprise  was  complete.  The 
older  people  had  been  expecting  something  of  this  kind, 
and  no  one  said  anything  until  the  first  shock  of  his  boyish 
joy  had  passed.  They  probably  wanted  to  hear  what  he 
would  say.  They  heard,  and  what  they  heard  was; 


A  DINNER  PARTY.  (4 

"Hully  gee!" 

When  Lizette  saw  the  gift  that  was  waiting  for  her  on 
that  plate — a  long  gold  chain  from  which  a  "beautiful 
locket  was  suspended — the  first  important  gift  John  Mur 
doch  had  ever  given  her,  she,  too,  was  overcome  by  a  par 
alyzing  surprise.  She  did  not  say  as  the  small  boy  had, 
"hully  gee!"  but  with  her  hands  clasped  and  her  smiles 
stiffened,  by  complete  amazement  on  her  face,  she  said,  as 
only  she  could  say  it: 

"Mon  Dieu!" 

And  John  Murdoch  knew. 


CHAPTEE  X. 
"MARRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!" 

Their  life  in  Paris  was,  to  Murdoch,  as  it  had  been  be 
fore.  But  the  episode  at  the  dinner  had  meant  much  to 
Lizette,  and  even  changed  the  roadway  of  her  thinking 
when  she  was  alone.  The  things  Murdoch  had  said,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  said  them  boldly  before  the  others, 
especially  before  Fitzpatrick,  who  had  come  straight  from 
New  York  City,  made  her  feel  that  she  had  a  place  in  this 
world.  I  don't  suppose  that  she  thought  as  much  about 
the  world  to  come  as  she  might  have.  Her  Heaven  was 
John  Murdoch. 

But  sometimes,  when  she  felt  very  happy,  the  thought 
of  what  Fitzpatrick  had  said  about  John  Murdoch's  father 
expecting  him  to  go  back,  some  day,  to  New  York  City, 
came  to  her  and  depressed  her.  She  did  not  regard  this 
as  so  very  serious.  Her  life  had  not  been  one  to  make 
her  give  much  heed  unto  the  future.  But  she  thought  of 
it  sometimes  and  felt  a  little  shiver  round  her  heart.  It 
brought  so  many  strange  problems  up — that  possibility 
that  Pudgy  might  sometime  have  to  go  back  to  please  his 
father.  Still  they  were  very  happy. 

His  picture,  "Parting"  attracted  much  attention.  The 
newspapers  gave  it  extended  notices,  and  Fleron,  in  his 
feuilleton,  one  day  wove  a  romance  around  it,  which  was 
wholly  without  truth,  but  which  was  very  pretty.  Indeed, 
the  story  was  so  charming  that  it  caught  the  eye  of  no  less 
a  person  than  Alphonse  Daudet,  then  in  the  very  zenith 
of  his  fame  and  in  the  very  depths  of  his  excruciating 
suffering  from  rheumatism.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  had 
not  left  his  home  for  weeks,  he  had  had  himself  taken  to 
the  Beaux  Arts  and,  Murdoch  was  told,  had  sat  in  his 


MARRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!  71 

wheeled  chair  half  an  hour  before  the  picture.  On  the 
next  day  the  young  artist  received  a  note  from  him,  asking 
him  to  come  and  see  him.  Murdoch  went,  of  course,  and 
equally,  of  course,  he  took  Lizette.  The  author  of 
"Sapho,"  received  them  very  kindly.  He  was  exceedingly 
infirm,  and  the  deep  lines  of  suffering  were  drawn  with 
sharp  wrinkles  in  his  face.  He  managed  to  get  about 
his  library  by  taking  the  back  of  a  small  chair  in  each 
hand,  and  pushing  them  along  as  one  might  use  canes. 

He  told  Murdoch  that  he  had  been  most  pleasantly  im 
pressed  by  "Parting."  He  asked  him  about  the  Fleron 
story.  Murdoch  told  him  that  it  was  pure  fiction. 

"Ah,"  remarked  the  author,  with  a  sigh.  "I  had  feared 
so,  and  yet  I  had  had  hopes  that  it  was  true.  Had  it  been 
true,  I  should  have  asked  you  to  go  more  deeply  into  it 
with  me,  and  I  should  have  used  it  as  the  basis  for  a 
story." 

"Can't  you  do  so  anyway?"  asked  Murdoch,  clumsily. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Daudet.  "You  do  not  understand.  I 
could  get  facts  for  my  fiction  from  you,  facts  are  the 
property  of  all  the  world.  But  I  cannot  base  a  tale  upon 
the  fiction  of  another  man.  His  fiction  is  his  property. 
The  realities  of  our  lives  we  do  not  own.  The  fictions 
of  our  imaginations  belong  to  us  undividually. 

He  shuffled  painfully  over  to  his  desk,  a  high  one,  such 
as  bookkeepers  stand  up  to  in  making  entries  in  their 
heavy  "books.  He  never  sat  down  to  his  writing,  he  said. 
Once  before  his  desk  he  could  stand  there  leaning  on  it 
and  write  for  three  or  four  hours  at  a  time,  but  it  was  a 
great  task  for  him  to  go  from  it  to  his  easy  chair  by  the 
window. 

"Would  you  like  to  paint  my  portrait?"  he  asked  of 
Murdoch,  after  the  matter  of  "Parting's"  story  had  been 
discussed. 

"Indeed,  I  should,"  said  Murdoch. 

"You  shall  do  it,"  said  Daudet,  "if  I  can  give  you  sit 
tings  here.  I  cannot  possibly  go  to  you  at  your  studio." 

Then  and  there  the  matter  was  arranged,  and  afterward, 
when  the  portrait  was  finished,  Daudet  pronounced  it  the 
best  picture  of  him  that  anyone  had  ever  made.  I  think 


72  LIZETTE. 

that  it  is  now  in  the  possession  of  his  son,  one  of  those  to 
whom  he  dedicated  "Sapho,"  with  the  wise  proviso,  that 
they  should  not  read  their  father's  story  until  they  were 
of  age. 

Before  Murdoch  went  away,  he  mentioned  that  the  next 
winter  he  hoped  to  see  the  south  of  France,  where  the 
great  author's  childhood  had  been  spent. 

"But  you  shall  not  go  south  for  some  time,  you  say?" 
asked  the  author. 

"No,"  I  cannot  go  before  next  winter,"  answered  Mur 
doch. 

"Ah,  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  the  author  with  a  sigh.  "I 
may  be  dead  then.  I  had  hoped  that  you  would  be  going 
soon,  so  that  I  might  make  some  pleasure  out  of  you.  I 
have  lately  made  much  out  of  one  countryman  of  yours. 
You  know  I  have  written  some  small  tales  about  'Tartarin 
de  Tarascon?'  Yes?  You  have  heard  of  them?  I 
am  glad.  Well  your  countryman  was  a  Eoman  Catholic, 
and  he  was  making — a — what  we  might  call  a  'pilgrimage 
de  luxe*  to  Lourdes.  I  knew  that  he  was  going  to  the 
south  of  France,  and  as  he  came  to  me  with  a  letter  from 
a  friend,  I  did  for  him  what  I  could.  I  gave  him  some 
letters  of  introduction  to  people  whom  I  once  knew  in 
Tarascon.  I  once  knew  them  very  well,  indeed,  so  well, 
in  fact,  that  I  used  them  as  the  lay  figures  for  the  charac 
ters  in  'Tartarin.' 

"The  devil  must  have  been  in  old  Daudet  that  day,"  he 
said,  smiling  cheerfully.  "Yes,  I  am  sure  that  the  devil 
must  have  been  in  me  when  I  selected  the  ones  to  whom 
I  should  give  him  letters.  You  know  that  I  have  been 
to  Tarascon  only  once  since  I  wrote  the  little  sketches,  and 
that  that  time  I  was  both  stoned  and  rotten-egged.  Well, 
I  gave  him  letters  to  those  who  had  "been  most  violent  to 
me.  He  was  very  grateful  to  me,  but  when  he  presented 
the  letters  the  people  down  there  almost  killed  him;  I  laugh 
about  it  many  times.  I  had  so  hoped  that  you  were  going 
south.  I  could  have  given  to  you  letters  which  might 
have  made  your  journey  very  interesting  to  you." 

The  two  men  laughed.     Lizette  did  not. 

"Suppose,"    she  said,   one   day   not   long  afterwards, 


MAHRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!  73 

while  she  was  reading  a  story  by  Daudet,  "suppose  that 
they  had  thrown  at  you  the  rotten  egg!  Afterward — Ah, 
afterward — I  should  have  creep  up  to  the  so  high  study 
of  M'sieu  Daudet  an'  keel  heem  wiz  ze  knife!" 

They  had  carefully  planned  that  trip  to  the  south  of 
France  as  the  first  long  journey  which  they  should  take 
together.  Alas!  If  they  could  have  known  what  trouble 
would  have  come  by  the  time  they  went  on  it,  they  could 
not  even  have  laughed  at  Daudet's  joke.  They  must  have 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  going  southward. 

The  day  they  went  to  see  a  great  woman  painter  was  a 
great  day.  This  celebrated  artist  had  seen  Murdoch's 
"Parting,"  in  the  Salon,  and  had  so  liked  it  that  she  had 
written  to  him  to  come  and  see  her.  It  filled  Murdoch 
with  a  pleasant  glow  to  receive  this  letter  and  Lizette  was 
almost  wild  with  pride  for  him. 

She  lived — this  great  woman  painter — in  a  big  house, 
and  was  very  rich.  What  she  had,  she  had  made  for  her 
self.  She  was  not  a  man-hater.  She  admitted  that 
human  males  sometimes  were  amusing,  but  she  could  not 
see  their  paramount  importance.  That  is,  she  could  not 
in  her  mind  admit  that  they  were  so  very  much  superior 
to  human  females. 

When  they  entered  her  vast  studio,  they  found  a  very 
dirty  place,  almost  unfurnished^  except  for  the  easels  and 
a  few  high  stools,  built  out  of  rough  lumber  by  the 
painter's  coachman.  Paint  was  everywhere — on  the 
floor,  on  the  walls,  on  the  ceiling  and  even  on  the  panes 
of  glass  which  formed  the  "big  skylight.  For  the  great 
lady  had  many  kinds  of  bad  temper,  and  whenever  she 
had  any  of  the  kinds  it  was  her  pleasure  to  throw  paint- 
laden  brushes  with  much  energy.  Another  eccentricity 
of  hers  was  to  dress  in  trousers  and  a  blouse.  She  was 
verging  on  the  sunset  of  her  life,  but  her  figure  was  still 
shapely,  and  the  snugness  of  her  trousers  and  the  good 
cut  of  the  blue-jeans  blouse  showed  that  she  was  still  a 
little  proud  of  it.  The  poor  lady  is  dead  now — rest  her 
soul!  She  no  longer  rants  and  raves  about  the  studio. 
She  no  longer  shouts  out  to  her  hearers  as  she  shouted 
out  to  Murdoch  and  Lizette  that  day  that  the  world  has 


74  LIZETTE. 

never  yet  seen  a  really  great  artist,  or  the  work  of  one, 
while  she  declares  that  the  pictures  of  the  "so-called  old 
masters"  are  as  crude  as  the  work  on  the  first  steam  engine. 
She  no  longer  smokes  a  hundred  cigarettes  a  day.  They 
had  not  been  there  that  day  more  than  ten  minutes  be 
fore  she  said,  with  emphasis,  that  in  the  days  to  come 
greater  artists  would  be  born  than  the  world  had  ever 
dreamed  of. 

"We  who  paint  to-day,"  she  said  in  English — she  was 
fond  of  showing  her  perfection  in  the  language — "are  but 
beginners.  How  long  has  God  Almighty  been  at  work 
in  the  making  of  this  world  we  live  on?  ^£ons  of  cen 
turies.  /Eons!  And  even  now  it  is  not  so  great  a  world.  I 
am  certain  that  there  are  other  planets  which  would 
put  our  little  one  to  shame.  But  ours  is  getting  better; 
it  is  getting  better.  A  million  years  ago,  you  know,  we 
all  had  tails!  I  have  always  thought  that  it  must  have 
been  most  unpleasant  to  our  remote  forebears  to  have  had 
tails.  I  am  sure  that  I  could  not  tolerate  a  tail.  Our 
pictures  to-day  are  just  as  much  better  than  the  pictures 
painted  by  the  ancient  Aztecs  on  their  buildings  in  Mexico 
as  we  are  better  than  our  forebears  who  had  tails.  But 
we,  also,  are  crude.  Do  you  suppose  that  the  enlightened 
generations  which  will  come  will  worship  at  our  shrines, 
as  we  worship  at  the  shrines  of  the  very  bad  artists  who 
have  departed,  and  who  could  not  pay  their  rent  to-day,  if 
they  were  here?  No,  they  won't.  Old  masters!  Bah! 
They  could  not  paint.  The  folk  that  will  come  after  us 
will  have  advanced  enough  mentally  not  to  be  cads  and 
worshippers  of  what  they  will  know  is  bad  and  crude." 

But  Lizette,  whose  whole  life  had  been  surrounded  by 
the  most  beautiful  collections  of  pictures  in  the  whole 
world,  and  who  had  her  adorations,  numbered  this  woman 
artist  among  them.  It  hurt  her  to  hear  her  condemn  her 
own  work  with  the  rest. 

"But  Madame!"  she  protested. 

"I  am  not  Madame,"  the  great  woman  artist  answered. 

"Ah!  But  it  is  that  when  I  say  Madame  I  mean  my 
respects  to  you — my  dignity  of  meeting  and  of  knowing 
you.  What  of  your  own  masterpieces?  Surely,  they  will 


MARRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!  75 

live  in  the  time  of  which  you  speak — that  time  which  has 
so  far  to  come/' 

The  great  woman  artist  laughed. 

"The  term  is  absurd,"  she  said.  "My  pictures  are 
master  nothings.  They  are  no  kind  of  pieces,  except 
pieces  of  daubed  canvas.  If  they  are,  my  dear,"  and  she 
patted  Lizette's  hand,  for  she  was  for  a  moment  calm, 
"and  if  you  must  insist  upon  calling  me  'Madame,'  why 
then  call  them  not  masterpieces,  but  mistresspieces.  You 
are  a  dear,  and  you  do  me  good." 

Then  she  turned  quickly  to  Murdoch,  and  gave  him  a 
keen  glance  out  of  her  sharp  eyes.  She  was  like  light 
ning,  sometimes,  was  this  woman  painter. 

"She's  a  sweet  child — this  Lizette  of  yours,"  she  said, 
sharply. 

"Indeed  she  is,"  was  Murdoch's  surprised  rejoinder. 

"I  have  heard  about  the  devotion  of  you  two,"  the 
great  woman  artist  pursued,  as  if  she  were  in  a  hurry.  "I 
have  never  been  in  love.  I  like  it.  I  wish  I  might  have 
been." 

"Oh,  Madame,"  said  Lizette,  with  instant  sympathy.  "I 
am  sorry — vairy  sorry." 

"Yes.  So  am  I,"  the  great  woman  artist  said  almost 
with  a  snap  at  the  little  girl,  who  stood  looking  at  her 
with  big  eyes.  "Yes.  So  am  I.  But  I  have  never  really 
loved  a  man.  You  love  this  one,  don't  you  child?  You 
really  love  this  great  big,  hulking  thing  from  America? 
You  love  him?" 

For  an  instant  Lizette  paused,  puzzled.  Then  she 
nodded  her  head  solemnly  and  with  conviction. 

"Surely,  Madame.  Of  a  certainty  I  love  him.  One 
must  love  liim,  you  know,  Madame.  One  cannot  help," 
she  said. 

"There  are  those  who  could,"  said  the  great  woman 
painter.  Then  she  turned  to  John.  "And  you,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  love  this  little  creature?  I  fancy  that  there  is 
much  in  her  to  love.  She  looks  so  soft  and  fluffy  that 
one  naturally  calls  her  little,  but  I  fancy  that  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  strength  in  her  somewhere.  You  know  what 
a  small  coil  they  can  put  a  Damascus  sword  blade  into. 


76  LI2ETTE.  • 

1  saw  one  once.  Never  think  things  are  weak  because 
they  are  little.  That  sword  blade  was  coiled  into  a  box 
no  bigger  than  the  one  that  holds  powder  for  this  charm 
ing  Lizette's  face.  Somewhere  there  is  a  lot  t>f  strength 
in  this  one,  this  girl  here.  You'll  see  it  some  day,  if 
you  haven't  seen  it  yet.  Do  you  love  her?  Do  you  love 
her?" 

The  great  woman  painter  spoke  so  rapidly  that  her 
words  had  a  click,  like  that  of  a  typewriter,  about  them. 

"Yes,"  said  Murdoch,  coloring.     "I  love  her." 

"All  right,"  said  the  great  woman  painter,  "I  want  to 
talk  to  you  before  you  go.  All  right." 

These  last  two  words  she  snapped  out  as  if  she  were  clos 
ing  the  cover  of  a  box,  which  she  should  open  again  before 
very  long,  but  which,  for  the  present,  she  wished  to  very 
tightly  shut. 

She  moved  away  and  changed  an  easel,  so  that  they 
might  see  an  unfinished  picture  in  a  new  fight.  As  she 
moved  it  she  took  a  great  brush  from  the  floor,  a  brush 
so  big  that  she  could  never  have  used  it  in  the  painting  of 
her  pictures.  She  carefully  dipped  it  in  fresh  paint, 
which  stood  there  in  a  keg — not  at  all  the  kind  of  paint 
that  is  used  in  making  pictures.  Lizette  wondered  what 
she  intended  to  do  with  it,  but  she  merely  held  it  in  her 
hand  as  she  walked  from  place  to  place,  and  talked,  pay 
ing  no  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  paint  fron\  it  was 
dripping  on  the  floor,  and  that  she  had  smeared  much  of 
it  upon  those  natty  blue- jeans  trousers.  She  merely  toyed 
with  it  and  used  it  as  another  woman  might  have  used  a 
fan  in  conversation.  But,  presently,  the  especial  use  for 
which  she  kept  that  very  large  brush,  which  would  hold 
such  quantities  of  paint,  became  apparent.  A  man  en 
tered  quietly,  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  card  or  a  letter 
on  a  silver  tray.  He  stepped  timidly.  The  great  woman 
painter  stopped  perfectly  still,  leaving  a  sentence  unfin 
ished.  The  servant  paused  with  what  appeared  like 
fright.  He  said  not  a  single  word,  but  stood  as  if  rooted 
to  the  spot.  For  a  moment  the  great  woman  painter 
eyed  him  as  a  hunter  might  eye  a  moose.  Then  she  took 
deliberate  aim  and  threw  the  brush.  It  struck  him  full 


MARRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!  77 

on  the  chest,  the  paint  or  heavy  end,  of  course,  going  first, 
as  the  head  of  an  arrow  does.  Some  of  it  splattered  up 
into  his  face.  He  turned  on  his  heels  like  a  soldier,  and 
went  out  .with  what  dignity  was  left  to  him,  making  no 
sound,  except  the  clicking  of  his  foot-falls  on  the  studio 
floor.  Murdoch  and  Lizette  gazed  in  amazement,  which 
the  great  woman  painter  evidently  enjoyed. 

"There,"  she  said,  with  a  small  laugh.  "That  is  what  I 
keep  those  great  brushes  and  that  cheap  paint  for.  It 
has  worked  me  up  to  think  about  you  two.  It  has 
worked  me  up.  But  I  am  not  nervous  any  .more.  Not  at 
all.  I  am  now  calm.  It  is  such  a  great  pleasure  to  throw 
good  brushes  with  cheap  paint  at  bad  servants  in  fine 
liveries.  Now,  I  can  talk  intelligently  again/' 

They  stayed  for  an  hour  longer  and  then  took  their 
leave.  The  great  woman  artist  kissed  Lizette  in  a  funny, 
pecking  little  way,  as  if  she  did  not  quite  know  how  to  do 
it,  and  shook  hands  with  Murdoch,  after  saying  more 
very  pleasant  things  about  "Parting." 

Just  as  their  little  open  cab  was  starting  away  with 
them  from  before  her  door,  she  appeared  hurriedly  on  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  it — tight  trousers,  blue  blouse  and  all. 
In  her  hand  she  held  the  big  brush,  dripping  with  fresh 
paint,  and  Lizette  involuntarily  dodged  as  if  she  were 
afraid  that  it  would  be  thrown  at  her.  But  the  great 
woman  artist  did  not  throw  the  brush.  She  called  to 
Murdoch: 

"You,  Murdoch!  Come  here  to  see  me!  Come  in  here 
for  an  instant." 

Lizette  made  a  movement  to  get  her  skirts  out  of  his 
way,  as  he  climbed  out  of  the  cab,  and  the  great  woman 
painter  called  to  her: 

"Not  you,  little  one.  Not  you,  my  dear.  It  is  that  big 
American  of  yours  that  I  want  to  see.  I  shall  not  keep 
him  from  you  long." 

She  pulled  Murdoch  inside  the  door  and  closed  it.  Her 
hand,  which  was  wet  with  the  fresh  paint  from  the  big 
brush,  left  a  stain  upon  his  coat  sleeve,  which  Lizette  was 
at  much  trouble  to  remove  that  evening. 

She  wasted  no  words, 


78  LIZETTE. 

"You  love  her — that  sweet  little  one  out  there?"  she 
asked,  with  her  clicking  words. 

"Yes/'  said  Murdoch. 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  loves  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Then  marry  her,  you  idiot!  One  does  not  love  and 
find  love  in  return  too  often.  Marry  her,  you  idiot!" 

Then  she  pushed  him  out  of  the  door  before  he  could 
say  a  word  in  answer,  leaving  more  smudges  on  his  coat, 
and  closed  it  after  him  with  a  loud  bang. 

Murdoch  was  very  silent  on  the  drive  home.  It  began 
to  rain  a  little  and  they  had  the  top  raised,  and  the  rain 
curtain  put  over  them  in  front,  so  that  they  were  almost 
hidden  from  the  street.  Murdoch  reached  over  and  took 
Lizette's  hand.  He  held  it  very  tightly,  so  tightly  that  it 
hurt  her,  but  she  did  not  mention  that.  Oh,  no,  for  he 
held  it  so  tightly  that  it  pleased  her,  too.  And  pleasure 
always  overshadows  pain.  He  did  not  tell  her  what  the 
woman  painter  had  said  to  him,  and  she  did  not  ask  him 
to.  They  were  quietly  happy  on  that  homeward  drive, 
which  they  prolonged  considerably  because  Lizette  was 
fond  of  driving  in  the  rain.  Murdoch  was  unusually 
thoughtful,  and  after  they  had  reached  the  studio  he  was 
especially  tender  toward  her.  She  hurried  into  her  wrap 
per  of  rich  red,  so  that  she  might  not  "catch  the  cold," 
which  he  ever  feared  for  her.  Then,  for  a  long  time,  she 
sat  quietly  by  him,  on  the  great  fur  rug,  gazing  with  him 
into  the  fire.  Who  shall  tell  what  pictures  her  fond  mind 
called  up  for  her  among  those  glowing  qoals.  She  was  so 
proud  of  him!  "So  vairy,  vairy  proud!"  He  would 
be  the  great,  great  artist!  Even  the  wonderful 
woman  painter  whom  they  had  seen  that  afternoon  had 
said  so,  and  she  was  chary  of  her  praise,  as  all  the  world 
well  knew.  These  and  many  other  things  flashed  through 
that  little  head  of  hers,  and  all  the  other  things  had  much 
to  do  with  Murdoch  also. 

Murdoch,  as  was  natural,  turned  his  thoughts  toward 
what  the  artist  had  said  when  she  had  called  him  back. 

"Marry  her,  you  idiot!  One  does  not  love  and  find 
love  in  return  too  often.  Marry  her,  you  idiot!" 


MARRY  HER,  YOU  IDIOT!  79 

He  recalled  the  words  exactly  as  he  sat  there  and 
thought,  with  Lizette's  dainty  head  resting  against  his 
knee  and  her  hand  stretched  up  to  his.  He  had  not 
avoided  thoughts  of  this  perplexing  matter  more  than 
most  men  dodge  the  thoughts  of  things  which  bother 
them.  All  men  are  cowards  with  themselves,  sometimes. 
But  the  great  woman  painter  had  thrown  the  situation  at 
him  with  such  suddenness  that  he  had  had  no  time  to 
dodge,  and  now  he  faced  it  squarely.  He  knew  the 
trouble  that  would  arise  at  home  if  he  did  as  she  told  him. 
He  could  imagine  the  hard  look  upon  his  father's  face. 
He  had  seen  it  there  when  other  people  had  angered  the 
old  man,  and  he  had  no  wish  to  have  it  for  himself.  He 
knew  the  way  his  sisters  would  deport  themselves,  if  he 
should  do  as  both  his  heart  and  conscience  told  him  that 
he  must  do.  There  came  the  thought  of  all  the  many 
things  which  Lizette  had  come  to  mean  to  him.  He 
turned  her  face  up  with  his  hands — how  willingly  those 
big  eyes  raised  to  his! — and  looked  down  into  it  and 
smiled.  After  that  there  could  be  no  longer  any  doubt  of 
what  was  best  for  him  to  do.  Not  all  the  people  in  all  the 
world  could  change  his  love,  and  that  he  knew.  He  de^ 
eided  that  the  woman  painter  had  been  right.  He  would 
marry  Lizette,  and  love  her  and  protect  her  and  have  her 
with  him  for  so  long  as  he  and  she  should  live.  But  that 
night  he  said  nothing  to  her  of  it.  Oh,  Murdoch!  What 
days  and  nights  of  misery  and  worry  you  would  have  saved 
yourself  and  her  if  you  had  but  spoken  then. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

KENTUCKY'S  CONFESSION. 

Murdoch  felt  very  little  anxiety  about  New  York  in 
those  days.  His  life  with  Lizette,  in  the  studio  which 
overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  was  the  same. 
Real  and  notable  success  in  his  art  work  was  on  its  way  to 
him  and  he  knew  it.  He  painted  four  good  pictures  in 
the  next  ten  months.  Kentucky  was  their  best  friend, 
ever,  the  only  close  friend  they  had,  and  the  strength  of 
their  love  for  him  increased  with  the  age  of  their  acquaint 
ance.  He  was  a  failure.  Murdoch  was  a  success.  He 
leaned  on  Murdoch  and  looked  up  to  him  as  a  great  man. 
But  probably  Murdoch  had  more  help  out  of  Kentucky 
than  Kentucky  had  out  of  Murdoch.  Kentucky  had  his 
weaknesses,  his  especial  one  was  absinthe,  but  there  was 
much  grave  and  good  philosophy  in  his  kindly  heart,  and 
he  loved  Murdoch.  Murdoch  could  sell  his  pictures  and 
would  not  because  he  had  no  need  to.  Kentucky  would 
sell  his  pictures  and  could  not  because  they  were  so  bad. 
But  the  two  men  loved  as  brothers  might,  and  what  Ken 
tucky  felt  for  Lizette  was  almost  more  than  a  brother's 
love. 

One  morning  he  hurried  tremblingly  up  the  stairs  to 
Murdoch's  studio.  His  eyes  were  bleared  and  his  hands 
were  shaking.  There  were,  too,  many  other  signs  of  a 
night  with  the  absinthe.  Lizette  .had  never  seen  him  so 
badly  shaken  before,  and,  for  a  moment,  she  shrank  from 
him.  He  certainly  was  not  a  pleasant  sight.  But  in  a 
moment  she  went  up  to  him  again  and  took  his  hand. 

<rY"ou  are  a  very  bad  and  wicked  old  Kentucky,"  she 
said  to  him;  "but  I  love  you  just  the  same.  Only  you 
must,  of  a  certainty,  make  me  the  promise  that  you  will 


KENTUCKY 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  81 

not  again  drink  absinthe  unless  it  is  that  Pudgy  or  myself 
is  at  the  same  time  with  you.  It  shall  ever  be,  here  for 
you.  I  do  not  ask  it  of  you  that  you  should  never  drink 
it  more,  but  I  ask  of  you  that  you  shall  never  drink  so 
much  again  as  to  make  your  hand  so  greatly  shake. 
Therefore  it  is  that  you  must  drink  only  of  the  absinthe 
when  Pudgy  or  your  p'tite  Lizette  is  with  you." 

She  had  never  spoken  to  him  quite  like  that  before.  It 
touched  him  and  he  promised.  And  he  kept  his  promise. 

After  Kentucky  had  wiped  his  reddened  face  and 
pulled  himself  together,  he  asked  Murdoch  to  go  over  to 
his  place  with  him  and  help  him  a  little  bit,  assuring  him 
that  what  he  wanted  could  be  accomplished  in  ten  min 
utes.  Kentucky  had  never  asked  a  favor  of  this  kind  or 
any  other  of  Murdoch  before,  and,  of  course,  the  younger 
man  told  him  that  he  would  be  glad  of  anything  he  could 
do  to  serve  him.  Perhaps  it  was  with  an  idea  of  further  self- 
abasement,  as  a  punishment  for  his  transgressions  of  the 
night  before,  that  Kentucky  asked  Lizette  if  she  would 
not  come  along  and  wait  while  Murdoch  did  the  little  task 
asked  of  him.  The  invitation  surprised  Lizette,  for  Ken 
tucky  had  never  even  mentioned  his  living  quarters  to  her 
before,  and,  while  she  had  once  thought  of  offering  to  go 
to  them  and  see  if  she  could  not  do  something  to  make 
him  more  comfortable  there,  she  had  refrained  from  doing 
so,  with  the  fear  that  they  were  so  humble  that  the  old  stu 
dent  might  not  wish  to  have  her  see  them.  She  went. 

When  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairway  leading 
to  his  lofty  quarters,  Kentucky  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
apparently  considering  whether  it  would  not  be  better  for 
him  to  ask  her  to  wait  below  or  over  in  the  Gardens  of  the 
Luxembourg,  until  Murdoch  should  have  helped  him,  but 
he  started  up  the  stairs  at  last  without  making  any  such 
proposition,  and  when  they  had  reached  the  top  of  the  last 
flight,  took  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  opened  a  door  which 
was  literally  under  the  slope  of  the  roof.  He  went  in  first 
and,  after  opening  a  window,  bade  them  come  in.  Lizette 
literally  gasped  when  she  looked  around  the  tiny  place. 
The  bed  was  in  great  disorder  and  there  was  no  stove  or 
other  provision  for  heating  the  room  on  cold  days  except 


82  LIZETTE. 

a  little  ch,arcoal  brazier,  which  lay  overturned  in  one  cor 
ner.  The  walls  were  bare  and  dirty.  There  was  no  sky 
light.  There  was  not  even  an  easel  in  the  place.  But 
over  in  the  corner  was  a  rickety  table  with  three  legs. 
Kentucky,  who  took  so  much  pleasure  in  making  small 
conveniences  for  their  studio,  had  not  made  any  for  his 
own  poor  room.  On  this  table  were  his  small  stock  of 
materials — those  little  boards  on  which  the  copies  of 
famous  pictures  were  to  be  painted  over  and  sold  to  tour 
ists  as  original  studies  by  the  students  of  the  Quarter. 

"You  see,"  said  Kentucky,  as  he  made  a  place  for  Lizette 
to  sit,  by  moving,  with  shaking  hands,  a  dozen  things  from 
one  of  the  two  chairs,  "I  had  to  call  on  somebody  for  help, 
Murdoch,  and  so  I  called  on  you.  Watch  my  hands  shake. 
Well,  I've  got  these  heads  of  a  Moorish  girl  all  done  except 
the  tube  of  the  pipe  she's  smoking.  Those  tubes  must  be 
put  in.  You  see  the  shaking  of  my  hands  didn't  make 
much  difference  anywhere  else  in  her."  He  drew  away  a 
little  so  that  he  could  scan  one  of  the  unfinished  little  pict 
ures  through  half  closed  eyes.  "No,  I  think  It  rather 
helped  the  things  along.  Made  the  pictures  look  impres 
sionistic — eh?  But  the  tubes,  Murdoch — the  tubes!  I 
never  can  get  'em  in  with  my  hands  shaking  like  this.  I 
couldn't  do  it.  They  must  be  done  with  steady  touches. 
And  I've  got  to  get  these  pictures  to  the  dealer.  I'm  ab 
solutely  stony  broke." 

Murdoch  offered  to  lend  him  money  so  that  he  could 
wait  before  he  finished  his  pictures  until  he  was  in  better 
shape.  But  Kentucky  said  that  he  did  not  care  to  borrow 
money.  Indeed,  Kentucky  never  borrowed  money,  an 
other  characteristic,  which  set  him  apart  from  the  tribe 
of  students  in  the  Quarter. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  don't  want  to  borrow  any  of  your 
money.  I  just  want  to  borrow  your  nerves  for  a  few 
moments.  If  you'll  put  those  tubes  in  for  me,  I'll  take 
those  pictures  out  and  get  some  money  which  will  be  all 
my  own.  And  putting  tubes  into  my  pictures  will  be  bet 
ter  anyway  than  putting  money  in  my  pocket.  Just  lend 
me  your  nerve,  old  man.  Maybe  I'll  be  able  to  pay  that 
back  some  day." 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  83 

So  Murdoch  put  in  the  tubes  with  a  few  deft  strokes,  and 
Kentucky  arranged  the  pictures  in  that  little  box  he  had 
devised  which  let  him  take  them  to  the  dealers  before  the 
paint  was  dry. 

So  shattered  were  the  nerves  of  the  old  student  that, 
when  the  tubes  were  in,  his  legs  shook  so  that  he  did  not 
dare  to  try  the  stairs.  They  had  to  sit  there  in  his  mis 
erable  little  room  with  him  for  a  few  moments  while  he 
pulled  himself  together.  His  voice,  as  he  spoke  to  them 
sounded  full  of  sobs,  but  it  was  not  really  sobs  but  absinthe 
which  made  it  shake.  That  he  was  suffering  mental 
agonies  also  because  Lizette  had  seen  him  in  such  pitiable 
plight  was  quite  apparent,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  dis 
guise  his  weakness  or  to  conceal  its  reason  or  condone  his 
foolishness. 

"Some  day,"  he  said,  with  shaking  body  and  uncertain 
voice,  "some  day,  when  I  have  not  made  a  beast  of  myself 
and  am  not  unworthy  to  look  at  it  myself,  I  shall  ask  you 
to  come  up  here  again.  I  have  one  picture  here  which  I 
should  sometime  wish  to  have  you  see." 

Here  he  had  to  stop  talking  for  a  time,  because  his 
trembling  got  the  better  of  him  and  made  his  words  hard 
to  understand.  Lizette  took  her  own  handkerchief  and 
wet  it  with  the  water  in  the  broken  pitcher  on  the  wash- 
stand.  She  softly  wiped  his  face  with  it,  wondering  the 
while  how  it  was  possible  for  liquor  to  have  so  changed  it. 
It  was  ordinarily  a  fine  face,  with  lofty  forehead  and  deep 
eyes  and  delicate  lips.  But  now  it  was  swollen  and  almost 
repellant.  The  lips  were  thick  and  flaming.  The  eyes 
were  red  as  fire  and  almost  covered  by  puffed  lids.  Dis 
hevelled  hair  hung  over  the  high  forehead  and  hid  its  mas 
sive  contour.  Murdoch  watched  them  for  a  moment  and, 
then  saying  that  he  would  come  back  immediately,  left 
them  together.  He  was  sorry  for  Kentucky.  There  was 
much  in  the  spectacle,  that  would  have  been  repellant  to  a 
stranger,  but  to  Murdoch  it  was  only  pitiful.  As  he  hur 
ried  down  the  stairs  he  tried  to  put  himself  in  the  older 
man's  place.  He  tried  to  think  how  he  would  have  borne 
the  burden,  if,  years  ago,  he  had  come  to  Paris  full  of  hope 
and  zeal?  confident  of  success  and  with  a  mistaken  sense 


84  LIZETTE. 

of  strength  to  do  big  things,  only,  in  the  end,  to  recognize 
complete  failure  and  barely  live  by  painting  little  pictures 
for  the  cheap  dealers.  He  tried  to  think  how  firm  his  own 
self-control  would  be  if  he  could  see  no  reward  in  the 
future  for  him,  no  matter  how  earnestly  he  strove.  He 
tried  to  conceive  his  own  sensations  should  he  be  as  this 
man  was,  without  home  or  hope  of  home  other  than  that 
garret  room,  without  friends  or  hope  of  friends  other  than 
the  few  Kentucky  had,  without  occupation  that  was  con 
genial,  with  no  rational  recreation  save  that  he  found  in 
those  evenings  at  the  studio  which  overlooked  the  Gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg.  There  was  nothing  in  Kentucky's 
life,  he  reflected,  as  he  made  haste  along  tne  street,  which 
at  all  approached  real  friendship  or  companionship,  except 
what  went  to  him  from  him,  Murdoch,  and  from  Lizette. 
He  compared  it  with  his  own  life,  full  of  love,  ambition 
and  success. 

"I'd  drink  myself  to  death,  if  in  the  doing  of  it  I  could 
forget  past  hopes  and  present  disappointments,"  he  de 
cided,  and  never  again  did  Murdoch  blame  Kentucky  for 
his  weaknesses. 

Lizette,  alone  with  the  shamed  and  sorry  man,  probably 
went  through  a  silent  course  of  reasoning  somewhat  simi 
lar.  Her  quick  woman's  sympathy  helped  her,  and  the 
episode  enlarged,  not  lessened,  the  place  reserved  in  her 
big  heart  for  the  remorseful  student.  It  distressed  her  be 
yond  measure  to  see  the  long,  gaunt  frame  of  the  tall  man 
shaken  by  such  mighty  sobs.  Murdoch  soon  returned 
with  a  great  paper  package  full  of  shirts  and  collars,  cuffs 
and  fresh  neck-handkerchief.  Lizette  again  bathed  the 
big  man's  face  with  the  cold  water,  and  then  went  out 
while  Murdoch  helped  him  dress.  His  hands  shook  so 
that  he  could  not  shave,  so  Murdoch  put  him  in  a  chair 
and  shaved  him. 

When  this  operation  was  completed,  Lizette  again 
bathed  the  student's  face  in  bright,  cold  water,  and  with 
her  own  fingers  fixed  his  new  neck-cloth  about  the  rolling 
collar  which  Murdoch  had  found  after  searching  half  a 
dozen  shops.  Kentucky  had  never  changed  the  fashion  of 
his  dress  since  the  days  when  first  he  had  begun  life  in  the 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  85 

Quarter,  and  such  old-fashioned  things  were  hard  to  find. 
Then  she  bade  Kentucky  put  on  his  coat  and  waist 
coat  and  stand  before  her. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  critical  bobbings  of  her  small  head, 
"I  am  not  satisfy.  Take  off  your  shoes." 

"Why?"  asked  Kentucky,  in  amazement. 

"Take  off  your  shoes!"  she  said,  imperiously.  "The 
questions  must  not  be  asked  of  me.  I  am  the — the  what 
you  call  him? — boss.  Take  off  your  shoes." 

And  Kentucky,  wondering,  did  as  he  was  bid. 

"Now,  Pudgy,"  said  Lizette,  as  she  lifted  the  great,  mud- 
encrusted  Bluchers,  "it  must  be  you  who  shall  take  these 
out  and  have  them  so  much  polish.  Yais.  They  must 
have  the  shiningness  of  sunlight.  And  while  you  attend 
to  this  most  important  affair,  it  is  that  I  shall  sponge  the 
dear  old  Kentucky  until  he  have  no  spots  on  him.  Ob 
serve!  Observe  the  spots  that  now  are  on  him!  They 
must  be  taken  all  away.  I  have  nevaire  seen  so  many  of 
the  spots  upon  one  human  being  at  one  time!  He  is  like 
the  leopard,  only  his  spots  are  of  the  grease  while  the 
leopard's  spots  are  of  his  skin  and  hair  and  cannot  be 
sponged  out.  Allans!  You  to  the  polisher  of  shoes,  I  to 
my  work  of  unspottationing!" 

While  Murdoch  was  away  she  sponged  the  humbled  big 
man  until  as  many  of  the  spots  as  were  not  permanent 
were  gone.  To  be  sure  he  looked  somewhat  wet  in  places, 
when  she  had  finished,  but  she  solemnly  assured  him  that 
that  would  pass  away. 

While  they  waited  for  Murdoch  to  return,  she  questioned 
Kentucky  about  the  price  paid  for  his  little  pictures  by  the 
dealers.  He  told  her  all  about  it  and  she  thought  a  mo 
ment,  deeply.  Then  she  announced  that  he  must  make 
up  his  mind  to  paint  very  many  of  them  within  the  next 
two  weeks. 

"It  is,"  she  said,  "that  over  what  you  have  to  earn  to  buy 
the  food  and  pay  the  rent,  you  must  paint  so  many  in  the 
coming  fourteen  days  that  you  shall  have  francs  enough 
to  buy  a  whole  new  suit  of  clothes.  I  shall  order  you  to 
do  so — now.  I  order  you.  And  when  I  order,  it  must,  of 
a  certainty,  be  done." 


86  LIZETTE. 

"I've  worn  this  suit  so  many  years  that  I  should  feel  a 
stranger  in  new  clothes,"  Kentucky  said  in  protest. 

"That  is  very  well,"  said  Lizette,  gravely.  "You  have 
been  the  most  naughty  boy.  Of  a  certainty  you  have  been 
ires  mechant!  All  your  badness  must  have  the  stop  at 
once.  All  your  goodness  must  come  back.  I  have  the 
thought  that  in  a  suit  of  all  new  clothes  there  will  be 
easier  times  for  you  to  be  the  good  child.  It  must  be 
done." 

She  tapped  her  foot  upon  the  dirty  floor  for  a  moment 
in  reflection,  and  then  she  said: 

"This  is  the  way  in  which  the  matter  shall  be  accom 
plish.  Pudgy  spends  much  time  at  the  schools.  Each 
morning  when  he  goes  to  the  work  I  shall  come  here.  He 
will  bring  me.  I  shall  sit  by  you  and  talk  to  you  while 
you  paint  these  many  small  little  pictures.  Thus — 
voilaf — you  will  not  have  the  loneliness,  and  it  shall  be 
done!" 

Before  Murdoch  returned  this  plan  had  been  consented 
to.  And  the  wet  spots  on  Kentucky  were  pretty  nearly 
dry.  He  had  not  very  much  the  appearance  of  the  leopard 
when  they  went  out  together,  he  with  his  little  pictures  in 
the  strange  long  box  which  let  him  take  them  to  the 
dealers  before  the  paint  was  dry  on  them. 

There  were  no  people  on  the  street  when  they  reached 
it,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly.  Lizette  made  the 
student  turn  around,  slowly,  so  that  she  might  get  a  com 
plete  view  of  him. 

"It  is  pretty  well,"  she  said.  "But  with  the  new  clother 
you  shall  be  even  much  better  than  it  is  now.  You  have 
the  handsome  face  and  the  high,  strong  body,  which 
Frenchmen  do  not  have.  In  the  new  clothes  it  is  that  you 
shall  be  vairy,  vairy  han'some." 

And  Lizette  could  not  wait,  now  that  the  idea  was  in 
her  head,  to  give  Kentucky  time  to  paint  the  little  pict 
ures.  She  made  Murdoch  lend  the  student  money  and 
she  made  him  take  it,  and  she  went  with  him  to  buy  the 
clothes.  They  were  fine  clothes  and  they  made  a  great 
sensation  in  the  Quarter.  But  Kentucky  was  not  comfort 
able  in  them,  and  only  wore  them  when  he  thought  that 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  87 

she  would  see  him.  He  was  much  happier  in  the  old  worn 
suit  and  the  ancient  hat  with  its  wilderness  of  little  beams 
inside. 

One  day  as  Lizette  sat  by  him  reading  to  him  from  the 
New  Testament — for  Kentucky's  literary  appetite  had 
turned  from  municipal  improvement  to  religion  for  the 
moment — while  he  painted  on  the  little  pictures  which 
were  to  pay  his  debt  to  Murdoch,  he  interrupted  her. 

"Don't  read  any  more,  just  now,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to 
talk  to  you.  May  I?" 

"Of  a  certainty,"  Lizette  responded,  laying  down  the 
Testament  with  a  sigh.  The  Bible  was  all  new  to  her,  and 
very  fascinating.  The  promises  it  held  out  to  those  who 
did  not  sin  were  wonderful.  They  appealed  strongly  to 
her  imagination,  and,  sometimes  as  she  read,  Kentucky  ex 
plained  them  very  simply  and,  she  thought,  beautifully. 
She  had  never  had  a  chance  to  learn  about  religion.  She 
had  seen  the  outward  show  of  churches  and  church  cere 
monies  and  she  had  been  told  about  the  Virgin  Mary  by 
some  one,  she  knew  not  whom.  But  the  beauties  of  it  all 
were  dawning  on  her  for  the  first  time,  as  she  sat  there 
in  that  little  garret  room,  reading  the  New  Testament  to 
poor  Kentucky  while  he  painted  those  little  pictures  with 
such  industry  in  order  that  he  might  quickly  pay  his  debt 
to  Murdoch. 

"I  am  trying,"  said  Kentucky,  as  he  bent  low  over  his 
work  to  paint  some  of  those  fine,  straight  lines  of  his,  "I 
am  trying  to  find  out  why  I  Jove  you  so.  You  are  sweet 
and  you  are  beautiful  and  good,  and  men  love  such  things 
instinctively.  But  my  love  for  you  is  more  than  that. 
John  Murdoch  is  my  friend  and  his  affection  for  you,  I 
am  sure,  is  as  big  as  man's  could  be  for  woman.  You  have 
done  much  for  him  and  will  do  much,  much  more.  But  I 
do  not  love  you  because  you  mean  so  much,  so  very  much, 
to  my  good  friend.  You  are  kind  to  me,  and  forgive  my 
weaknesses  and  find  what  few  good  points  are  in  me,  and 
it  makes  me  thankful.  But  my  love  for  you  is  more  than 
gratitude."  He  straightened  up  and  pushed  his  work 
away.  He  rose  and  bent  his  great  form  over  her  and  held 
her  face  up  with  a  great  hand  beneath  her  chin,  so  that  he 


88  LIZETTE. 

4 

might  gaze  into  her  eyes.  "I  sometimes  feel,  you  dainty 
one,  that  sometime  in  another  life,  long  gone,  it  was  my 
love  and  duty  to  fight  for  you  and  shelter  you;  to  strive 
for  you  and  work  for  you;  to  hold  you  in  my  arms  as  if 
you  were  a  little  child  and  toss  you  up  to  see  the  sunset  as 
I  once  did  my  own  sweet  baby,  long  since  dead." 

Lizette  was  astonished  by  the  vehemence  and  intensity 
of  his  strange  manner  and  more  so  by  what  he  said  about 
"his  baby."  There  was  a  yearning  look  in  the  eyes  that 
gazed  into  hers  so  steadily,  that  seemed  almost  hungry. 
His  action  was  uncanny,  but  she  had  no  desire  to  shrink 
from  him.  She  only  gazed  at  him  and  wondered — breath 
lessly. 

"1  never  knew  you  had  a  baby,"  she  said,  softly. 

"It  was  long  ago,"  he  answered.     "Long  ago." 
He  sat  down  again  at  his  little  table  with  its  three  shaky 
legs  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  it.    But  never  once  did  his 
big,  deep-set  eyes  wander  from  her  face. 

"It  was  long  ago,  and  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it,  some 
time.  Now  I  must  think  about  my  love  for  you  and  try 
to  find  its  reason.  It  is  real.  When  you  asked  me  to  stop 
drinking,  little  one,  it  frightened  me,  for  I  did  not  want 
to  stop.  I  have  much  that  is  not  pleasant  in  my  memory, 
and  when  I  think  of  it  I  cannot  rest  or  sleep.  "When  I 
think  of  it  it  fills  me  with  rebellion  against  everything. 
And  that  is  bad.  The  drinking  has  helped  me  at  such 
times.  It  has  helped  me  to  forget.  I  found  once  that 
when  I  could  not  master  my  willful,  agonizing 
thoughts,  and  felt  as  if  I  should  go  crazy  with 
my  sorrows,  I  found  that  absinthe  would  bring  for- 
getfulness  and  a  certain  sort  of  weak,  unhealthful  pleasure. 
So  I  drank  absinthe.  You  asked  me  not  to  drink  it  any 
more,  and  now  I  could  not  drink  it  if  I  would.  I  don't 
know  why.  That  morning  when  you  and  Murdoch  came 
here,  I  knew  that  you  would  ask  it  of  me,  and  I  wanted 
to  beg  you  not  to.  I  didn't  and  I  don't  know  why  your 
asking  it  should  make  me  stop,  but  I  knew  it  would,  and 
I  didn't  want  to  stop.  I  wanted  to  have  the  comfort  in  me 
of  knowing  that  when  the  sorrow  of  those  years  gone  by 
should  come  to  me  and  overwhelm  me,  as  it  does — I  wanted 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  89 

to  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  I  could  make  myself 
forget  it  with  the  absinthe.  It  was  a  comfort.  But  now  I 
know  it  was  a  bad  comfort,  and  I  am  glad  you  asked  it  of 
me.  I  can  never  drink  the  stuff  again.  Sometimes  I 
yearn  for  it.  Sometimes  the  longing  for  the  drink  is  so 
great  within  me  that  it  seems  as  if  I  should  fly  in^pieces  if 
I  did  not  have  it.  Half  a  dozen  times  when  I  have  felt 
that  way  I  have  gone  out  and  sat  down  at  a  cafe  and 
ordered  it,  but  when  the  waiter  brought  it,  I  could  not 
drink  it,  because  you  had  asked  me  not  to." 

Lizette  looked  at  him  in  simple  wonderment.  When 
she  had  asked  him  not  to  drink  she  had  not  gone  deeply 
into  the  matter.  She  had  not  dreamed  that  poor  Ken 
tucky  had  a  method  in  his  madness.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  her  that  he  took  the  absinthe  as  an  opiate  which  would 
dull  the  misery  of  painful  memories. 

"I  am  vairy,  vairy  sorry/'  she  said  softly,  and  laid  her 
little  hand  on  his  big  knotted  one  as  it  lay  there  on  the 
table. 

"You  need  not  be,"  he  said,  "for  I  am  glad — now. 
Nature  is  great  and  wonderful.  She  compensates.  She 
always  compensates.  And  she  has  compensated  me. 
These  days  with  you,  while  you  have  been  here,  reading  to 
me,  have  strangely  compensated  me.  I  don't  know  how. 
I  can't  tell  how.  You  see  there  has  been  very  little  in  my 
life  for  me.  I  have  no  friend  in  all  of  Paris,  or  all  the 
world,  for  that  matter,  but  you  and  Murdoch.  Worse  yet, 
I  have  and  have  had  no  wish  to  have.  I  have  for  years 
turned  from  all  intimacies,  shunned  all  acquaintances 
when  they  began  to  border  on  close  friendship  for  some 
reason  which  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  find  analysis  of. 
But  your  friendship — yours  and  that  of  Murdoch — it  is 
satisfying.  Strangely  satisfying.  I  had  nothing  to 
look  forward  to  before  you  came  that  had  a  pleasant  feat 
ure  in  it,  and  that  left  me  but  the  present  and  the  past  to 
live  in.  The  present — you  know  what  that  must  have 
been  before  you  came.  It  was  not  good.  The  past!  Oh, 
little  one,  that  past!  So  dear!  So  bright!  So  full  of  life 
and  love  and  happiness!  Until  one  day  it  all  changed  in 
an  hour.  It  changed.  The  life,  the  love,  the  joy  all 


90  LIZETTE. 

passed  away,  and  in  their  places  came  death  and  grief.  I 
sometimes  used  to  begin  at  the  beginning  of  my  life — 
away  back,  as  far  in  the  days  gone  by  as  I  could  make  my 
memory  reach.  I  recalled  myself,  as  best  I  could  as  a 
small  boy  on  a  Kentucky  farm.  You  can't  conceive  of 
that.  It  was  a  rough  life,  but  it  was  a  happy  one.  It 
ended.  My  people  died.  Every — person — whom — I — 
loved  (he  spoke  almost  as  if  he  were  counting  the  dire 
tragedies  within  his  mind) — died.  I  wanted  to  die,  too. 
When  I  went  and  stood  beside  the  grave  into  which  they 
put  my  mother,  I  wanted  to  die,  too.  She  was  the  last  to 
go,  and  her  loss  was  the  hardest  loss.  Well,  I  used  to  try 
to  recall  that  life  before  they  died,  and  bring  back  to  my 
mind  its  littlest  details,  so  that  I  could  make  the  pleasant 
memories  last  as  long  as  possible.  Sometimes  I  have  made 
them  last  as  many  as  three  days,  by  forcing  little  matters 
to  come  back  to  me.  But  when  those  pleasant  memories 
stopped  and  the  dreadful  days  of  Death  began — it  was  not 
bright  and  pleasant  to  remember  them.  It  was  very  ter 
rible.  And  then  I  drank  the  absinthe  and  forgot.  My 
first  grief  lasted  many  years.  I  must  have  had  as  a  child 
a  large  capacity  for  loving,  for  my  capacity  for  grieving 
was  so  great  after  the  objects  of  my  love  had  died.  Hard 
work  on  the  farm  at  first,  and  afterwards  in  Louisville — 
that  is  a  city,  little  one — helped  me  to  bear  the  sorrow, 
though.  I  worked  there  for  a  sign  painter  until  I  came  al 
most  to  be  a  man,  and,  somehow,  the  silly  notion  got  into 
my  head  that  if  I  might  only  have  a  chance  to  study  I  might 
some  day  paint  something  better  than  mere  signs  to  show 
a  man  where  he  could  buy  sausages  or  get  his  horse  shod. 
It  was  funny,"  said  Kentucky,  with  the  first  smile  that  had 
lighted  up  his  face  since  he  had  begun  to  talk  in  this 
strain,  "it  was  funny  about  that  sausage-maker's  sign. 
That  settled  it.  I  felt  that  painting  it  disgraced  me,  and 
I  have  never  painted  a  single  other  sign  in  all  my  life,  and 
I  never  shall  paint  another  sign  before  I  die.  I  saved 
some  money  and  I  came  here.  You  know  the  rest.  I 
failed!" 

There  was  nothing  which  Lizette  could  say  to  comfort 
him.     It  was  all  so  true — his  failure.     It  had  been  so  real 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  91 

and  so  complete  that  there  could  be  found  no  saving  clause 
in  it;  no  word  of  praise  or  even  of  extenuation.  Lizette 
sat  helpless,  and  she  felt  it  keenly.  It  would  be  the 
veriest  cant  to  tell  him  that  he  had  not  failed,  and  he 
would  recognize  the  cant  and  feel  abhorrence  for  it.  He 
got  up,  slowly,  and  walked  into  the  dormer,  where  the 
little  window  was,  which  looked  upon  the  street.  He  had 
to  stoop  in  order  to  enter  the  small  place,  but  he  went  in 
and  stood  there  looking  out,  but  seeing  nothing,  for  a  time. 
Then  he  came  back  and,  sitting  down,  began  to  talk  again. 

"It  has  'been  strange  about  this  life  of  mine,"  he  said. 
"I  left  America  with  nothing  there  I  cared  for  save  the 
graves.  I  came  here  to  begin  life  over — to  find  new 
interests  and  loves.  I  found  them  for  a  time  and  then  I 
found — more  graves!  Yes,  little  one,  I  found  them  for 
a  time.  I  found  such  interests  as  I  had  never  dreamed 
of.  I  worked.  Worked  hard.  Worked  hopefully.  Worked 
earnestly.  But,  alas!  it  was  not  in  me  to  work  well.  It 
was  not  in  me,  child;  but  that  I  did  not  dream,  at  first. 
I  knew  my  progress  was  much  slower  than  the  progress  of 
the  other  fellows,  but  it  is  so  easy  to  deceive  ourselves!  I 
thought  because  my  advance  was  slow  that  it  was  also 
sure.  I  was  happy  in  that  feeling.  I  had  a  small  allow 
ance  and  I  worked  and  worked  and  worked.  I  married." 

"Kain-tuck-yl"  breathed  Lizette  with  soft  intensity,  sur 
prised  beyond  all  measure.  "You  married!  Oh,  Kain- 
tuck-y\  And  you  nevaire  told  me  so  bif-fore!" 

"No.  I  never  told  you  so  before.  I  have  not  spoken  of 
it  to  anyone  except  myself  before,  in  many  years.  Some 
times  when  I  am  here  alone  I  talk  of  it  aloud  and  call  her 
name  as  if  my  calling  her  might  bring  her  back  to  me.  But 
it  cannot,  of  course.  It  has  been  at  times  like  that  that 
I  have  gone  and  drunk  the  absinthe.  It  has  been  at  such 
times,  child,  that  I  have  drunk  until  I  found  forgetful- 
ness.  You  understand  it  better  now?" 

"I  understand,"  Lizette  said,  softly. 

"We  were  very  happy.     She  was  wonderful — my  wife!" 

"Your  wife,"  Lizette  repeated  in  a  low  whisper. 

"She  was  wonderful,"  went  on  the  artist.  "It  may  be 
that  I  see  in  you  some  things  that  are  a  little  like  her. 


92  LIZETTE. 

That  may  be  the  reason  that  I  first  began  to  feel  toward 
you  and  Murdoch  as  I  do.  I  cannot  tell.  Sometimes,  for 
an  instant,  there  is  that  about  your  face  which  makes  me 
think  of  her.  Sometimes  I  catch  a  modulation  in  your 
voice  that  makes  me  think  of  hers.  Sometimes  a  ripple 
in  your  laughter  makes  me  hear  again  the  merry  laughter 
of  those  days  so  long  passed  now — those  days  when  she 
was  with  me,  and  my  life  held  love  and  happiness  and 
hope." 

Lizette  rose  softly  and  smoothed  the  long  hair  back 
from  his  lined  and  rugged  forehead.  She  said  not  a  single 
word,  but  she  stooped  and  kissed  him  on  his  brow,  and 
then  resumed  her  seat  again. 

"That  was  very  sweet  and  lovely  of  you,"  said  Kentucky, 
trying  hard  to  smile.  "So  sweet — so  lovely — that  it  made 
you  seem  again  like  her." 

"I  should  be  vairy  proud  if  I  could  seem  like  one  whom 
you  had  loved  so  vairy,  vairy  much,"  replied  Lizette. 

"Oh,  many,  many  times  you  seem  so  like  her  that  it 
makes  me  catch  my  breath,"  he  answered.  "Many,  many 
times.  Her  people  hated  me.  You  know  the  French  idea 
that  a  girl  must  marry  money.  She  might  have  done  so, 
but  she  did  not;  she  married  me.  It  made  them  hate  me. 
That  they  would  have  killed  me  if  they  could  have  done 
so  safely,  I  have  no  doubt  at  all,  for  they  were  poor  and 
there  was  a  man — a  merchant  here  in  Paris — who  was  pros 
perous  and  wished  to  marry  her.  It  would  have  helped 
them  all.  But  she  married  me,  a  poor  man,  and  they 
hated  me.  I  took  her  and  they  lost  the  money  they  might 
have  sold  her  for,  and  so  they  hated  me.  Their  hatred 
was  so  great  that  we  had  to  cross  to  England  to  get  mar 
ried.  You  know  that  here  in  France  one  must  have  the 
consent  of  parents,  if  one  has  them.  Well,  we  slipped 
away  one  night  and  crossed  the  Channel.  It  was  in  Dover 
that  we  were  married — in  Dover,  where  the  laws  are  better. 
What  a  day  that  was — that  day  when  I  first  took  her  in  my 
arms  and  called  her  'wife!'  They  would  haxe  killed  me 
gladly,  but,  of  course,  they  did  not.  I  sometimes  think 
that  if  they  had,  it  would  have  been  much  better.  If  my 
mistaken  life  had  ended  then — then  when  it  was  so  happy! 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  93 

"We  could  not  stay  in  Paris.  She  was  afraid  of  them. 
She  was  actually  afraid  for  me.  We  tried  to  stay  here,  but 
we  could  not.  Whenever  I  went  away  from  her,  even  for 
ever  so  short  a  time,  she  was  afraid.  I  had  a  small  allow 
ance  then — a  very  small  one,  but  enough  so  that  we  could 
buy  food  and  shelter  without  selling  pictures — enough  so 
that  I  could  keep  on  with  my  mistaken  studying.  But  I 
gave  up  the  schools  and  we  left  Paris,  because  she  feared 
those  who  should  have  loved  her. 

"We  went  far  away  from  here.  We  were  very  happy. 
It  was  very  little  that  we  had  except  each  other,  but  we 
were  very  happy.  I  worked  and  worked  and  worked.  Some 
times  I  think  that  in  those  days  my  work  showed  promise 
of  good  things  to  come.  They  used  to  tell  me  that  it  did, 
but  the  good  things  came  so  very  slowly!  I  know  that  in 
that  year  with  her  I  learned  more  about  painting  than  the 
schools  could  have  taught  me  in  a  generation.  My  love 
for  her — it  made  me  learn. 

"And  then  there  came  the  little  one." 

"A  baby?"  asked  Lizette,  speaking  softly  but  with  eager 
interest. 

"Yes.  Then  there  came  our  baby.  How  proud  I  was! 
How  happy!  Ah,  then  I  worked!  Oh,  how  I  worked  in 
those  days!  I  had  a  double  reason  for  it  then,  you  know/' 

"I  know,"  his  listener  said,  softly. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Kentucky,  "then  I  worked,  and  some 
times  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  work  was  not  so  very  bad. 
It  surely  grew  better  as  the  days  went  on.  I  sold  one 
picture — a  picture  so  rich  in  memories,  so  full  of  hints  of 
love  and  joy  in  days  gone  by,  that  afterwards  I  bought  it 
back,  and  almost  starved  myself  to  pay  the  price  of  it." 

He  paused  again,  and  tears  came  slowly  to  his  eyes. 

"I  have  it  here,  now,  in  this  room.  And  some  day  I  shall 
show  it  to  you.  I  have  tried  to  make  a  change  in  it,  and, 
failing,  have  almost  spoiled  it.  But  some  day  I  shall  show 
it  to  you.  Not  to-day,  but  some  day.  I  do  not  want  to 
look  at  it  to-day. 

"The  only  dark  spots  in  the  three  years  that  followed 
were  those  her  father  and  her  mother's  sister  made.  I 
never  blamed  the  woman  much.  I  never  saw  her  and  I 


94  LIZETTE. 

think  she  did  not  know  the  truth  about  the  matter  or  she 
would  never  have  lent  herself  to  such  persecution  of  us. 
But  the  hatred  of  her  father  for  me — the  man  who  had 
robbed  him,  as  he  looked  at  it — was  boundless.  Such 
letters  as  they  wrote  to  her.  Such  bitter,  bitter  letters! 
They  made  her  poor  heart  bleed.  I  say  this  was  the  only 
cloud.  That  is  not  quite  true.  There  was  another;  but 
even  the  sharp  eyes  of  my  great  love  did  not  see  it.  She 
was  not  strong  after  our  dear  baby  came.  I  do  not  mean 
that  she  was  ill,  but  I  feared  that  she  might  become  so,  by 
and  by. 

"Three  years  passed  in  great  happiness.  "We  were  not 
rich.  We  never  hoped  to  be.  But  still  we  were  not  poor. 
That  is,  we  had  enough  to  eat  and  wear  and  keep  good 
shelter  over  us.  I  might  have  'boiled  some  pots/  and 
wanted  to,  so  that  we  could  have  a  nurse  and  thus  relieve 
her  of  that  labor.  But  she  would  never  hear  of  it.  She 
believed  in  me — that  little  woman  did.  God  bless  her! 
She  believed  in  me  and  would  not  let  me  paint  cheap  stuff. 
I  have  often  thought  as  I  have  sat  here,  working  at  these 
miserable  little  things,  with  which  I  make  my  living  now, 
how  it  would  distress  her  if  she  knew. 

"I  know  now  that  as  time  passed  she  grew  more  delicate. 
I  did  not  know  it  then.  I  did  not  realize  it.  Little  one, 
I  love  to  sit  and  dream  of  those  days — only  the  dreaming 
leads  to  such  great  sorrow  at  its  end. 

"By  and  by  there  came  some  jugglery  about  my  allow 
ance.  Suddenly  it  stopped.  I  had  to  go  to  the  United 
States.  I  had  to — or  thought  I  had  to.  God  knows  how 
bitterly  I  sorrowed  for  that  journey  afterwards.  Better  it 
would  have  been  that  we  had  starved  together  than  that  I 
should  have  gone.  I  could  not  take  her  with  me,  for  trav 
eling  in  those  days  was  expensive — much  more  so,  even, 
than  it  is  now.  I  could  not  raise  the  money,  and  so,  God 
pity  me!  I  left  her  behind.  Every  mile  that  came  be 
tween  us  as  I  traveled  was  a  new  grief  to  me;  every  day  of 
absence  from  her  was  a  poignant  sorrow.  That  is  true.'' 

He  rose  again;  again  he  went  to  the  window;  again  he 
came  back  and  sat  down  at  the  table  with  three  legs,  and 
as  he  did  so,  Lizette  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 


KENTUCKY'S   CONFESSION.  95 

They  trickled  slowly  down  his  face  as  he  finished  his  tale 
of  tragedy.  He  ended  in  broken  sentences.  He  gave  no 
details,  and  she  knew  why.  She  knew  that  every  word  he 
said,  every  thought  of  that  dreadful  time  now  passed  by 
more  than  twenty  years,  was  like  a  knife-cut  in  his  heart. 
He  spoke  in  jerks — as  if  unwillingly. 

"While  I  was  gone — the  cholera — went  there — and  they 
— died!  In  America — I  had  only — graves.  In  France — 
more  graves!" 

He  paused  awhile  before  he  spoke  again. 

"The  picture  which  I  told  you  of/'  he  said,  at  last,  "and 
which  I  shall  some  day  show  you — the  only  really  good 
picture  that  I  ever  painted,  is  of  the  churchyard  where 
they  lie.  Had  I  but  known  when  I  was  painting  it  that 
my  beloved  ones  would  sleep  in  it  so  soon!  Ah,  how  my 
hand  would  then  have  trembled!  But  I  did  not  know.  I 
did  not  know  until  I  saw — the  graves.  New  graves — they 
were — new  graves.  They  were  not  painted  in  my  picture. 
I  bought  the  picture  back,  and  have  it  now.  I  shall  show 
it  to  you  some  day. 

"And  that  was  why,"  he  said,  "I  drank  the  absinthe." 

His  head  dropped  to  the  little  table.  It  was  still  bowed 
on  it  when  John  Murdoch  came  to  get  Lizette. 

Kentucky  would  not  dine  with  them  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XH. 

A    SUMMONS    FOR   MURDOCH. 

Fitzpatrick  stayed  in  Paris  until  the  first  of  January. 
His  time  was  energetically  occupied  by  the  fascinating 
business  of  buying  hats,  but  he  called  at  the  studio  some 
times  and  was  always  welcomed  there.  One  evening  he 
said  that  he  wanted  to  ask  a  favor  of  Lizette. 

"There  is  a  man  in  this  town  who  has  some  things  I 
want  to  buy/'  he  said,  "but  the  misguided  creature  fails  to 
appreciate  the  latent  beauties  of  my  character.  He  hates 
me  as  a  snake  hates  Ireland,  my  native  land.  I  have  often 
tried  to  understand  how  anyone  could  hate  me,  but  I  have 
ever  failed  to.  The  beauties  of  my  character  are  so  plain 
to  me  that  it  seems  absurd  for  anyone  to  fail  to  see  and 
to  appreciate  them.  But  this  person  is  either  blind  or 
won't  see.  I  don't  know  which.  Indeed,  he  is  so  preju 
diced  against  me  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  any 
business  with  him.  He  will  not  talk  to  me;  he  will  not 
take  my  money.  And  yet,  strangely  enough,  he  has  in  his 
possession  certain  models  that  I  want  to  purchase.  Now, 
what  has  come  into  my  mind  is  this:  Will  you  go  and  buy 
'em  for  me?" 

"If"  inquired  Lizette. 

"None  other,"  said  Fitzpatrick.  "He  will  sell  to  you 
and  you  can  sell  to  me.  It  will  be  the  biggest  kind  of  a 
big  favor  to  me  if  you'll  do  it.  Honest  Injun!  You  shall 
have  one  of  the  hats.  You  shall  have  my  gratitude  for  a 
permanent  possession.  The  hat  will  be  adorned  by  the 
face  beneath  it;  the  gratitude  you  may  file  away  among 
your  assets  to  be  referred  to,  if  you  ever  need  it." 

He  stopped  his  highfalutin  talk  for  a  minute,  and 
turned  to  Murdoch. 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  97 

"You  see,  it's  this  way,"  he  said.  "The  art  of  hat  buy 
ing  may  not  seem  to  you  to  be  exalted.  But  it's  the  only 
art  I've  got.  This  chap  has  got  some  models  that  I  want, 
and  he  won't  do  business  with  me.  Now,  if  the  little 
woman  would  only  go  and  get  them  for  me,  it  would  help 
me  out  a  lot.  If  there  is  any  objection  in  the  world  to  it, 
we  won't  think  of  it  any  more.  If  there  isn't,  why  I'd 
like  to  get  it  over  with  to-morrow." 

It  was  agreed  upon  and  done.  Lizette  was  delighted  to 
be  able  to  be  of  service  to  Fitzpatrick — she  was  ever  hap 
piest  when  she  was  working  for  the  happiness  of  other  peo 
ple — and  she  spent  a  long  morning  doing  what  he  asked 
her  to  do.  She  did  it  well  and  eminently  to  the  buyer's 
admiration  and  satisfaction.  The  hats  he  wanted  were 
sent  to  Murdoch's  studio,  and  there,  next  morning,  Fitz 
patrick  went  to  get  them.  They  certainly  were  charming 
hats  and  were  not  made  less  so  by  Lizette,  who  tried  them 
on  for  him,  and  showed  him  many  beauties  in  the  milli 
nery  Avhich  he  would  not  have  dreamed  of  had  it  not  been 
for  her.  She  also  made  suggestions  to  him  about  other 
hats,  and  he  declared  that  she  had  a  genius  for  the  decora 
tion  of  the  female  form.  He  insisted  that  sEe  should 
keep  one  of  the  dainty  bonnets  for  herself  and  she  con 
sented,  provisional  on  Pudgy' s  approval.  That  brought  up 
the  matter  of  John  Murdoch's  father  in  the  hat-buyer's 
mind. 

"When  is  Murdoch  going  over?"  he  asked  Lizette. 

"Going  to  America?"  she  queried.     "I  do  not  know." 

"I  suppose  he'll  have  to  pretty  soon,"  Fitzpatrick  said. 
"His  old  man's  not  what  he  used  to  be.  When  I  saw  him 
last  he  seemed  quite  infirm.  He's  a  great  big  chap — the 
old  man  is —  and  he's  always  been  as  straight  in  his  body 
as  his  house  has  in  its  business.  And  no  one  ever  ques 
tioned  that,  I  tell  you.  I  fancy  that  he's  never  been  the 
kind  of  chap  to  talk  much,  but  he  certainly  does  love  this 
son  of  his.  You  ought  to  have  seen  his  eyes  brighten  up 
when  he  found  I  knew  him.  He  didn't  seem  the  same  old 
man  after  he  found  that  out.  I'd  always  been  a  mighty 
humble  person  around  that  banking  house,  although  I've 
done  business  there  for  a  good  many  years.  I'd  never 


98  LIZETTE. 

seen  further  inside  of  it  than  I  could  see  through  the 
wire  grating  over  the  cashier's  desk.  Not  many  people  do. 
But  when  I  told  the  cashier — his  name  is  Smith — that  I 
wanted  a  draft  on  Paris,  he  asked  me  if  I  was  coming  over 
here.  I  told  him  that  I  was. 

"  'You  spend  a  good  deal  of  your  time  in  Paris,  donft 
you?'  he  asked. 

"  'Yes/  said  I,  'I  do/ 

'"Ever  happen  to  meet  the  old  man's  son  over  there?' 
he  asked.  'His  name's  John/  says  he,  'and  he's  studying 
art  over  there.  Must  have  surprised  the  old  man  a  good 
deal/  says  he,  'to  have  a  son  of  his  turn  out  to  be  an  artist, 
but  he  don't  say  much  about  it.' 

"All  the  time  that  he  was  talking,  I  was  thinking  that 
if  the  old  man  should  find  out  that  he'd  been  gossiping 
about  his  affairs  he'd  probably  have  trouble.  From  what  I'd 
seen  of  the  old  man,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  he  wasn't 
the  sort  that  would  go  mad  with  joy  to  find  his  family 
matters  being  talked  over  by  his  employees,  so  I  didn't 
say  very  much,  except  that  I  had  met  young  Murdoch. 

"  'Is  he  getting  on  pretty  well?'  the  cashier  asked  of  me. 
'You  bet  he  is/  said  I.  He  hadn't  won  the  prize  of 
honor  then,  so  I  couldn't  tell  him  about  that,  I  didn't 
know  there  was  a  prize  of  honor,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  I 
said  that  he  was  the  bright  and  shining  wonder  of  the 
town,  of  course.  I  like  Murdoch,  and  I  always  like  to  say 
good  things  about  the  people  that  I  like. 

"'That  so?' said  he. 

"  'That's  so/  said  I. 

"  'Wait  a  minute/  said  he. 

"I  waited  and  he  went  away.  When  he  came  back  he 
told  me  to  go  back  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  'The  old  man'd  like  to  see  you/  says  he. 

"  'All  right/  says  I,  and  went. 

"He  took  me  into  the  president's  private  office,  and 
there  sat  the  old  man  at  his  desk.  I  hadn't  seen  him  for  a 
year  or  two,  and  he  has  changed  a  lot.  He  showed  his  age. 
I  don't  know  just  how  old  he  is,  but  that  morning  he 
looked  a  hundred.  He  didn't  get  up  to  shake  hands  with 
me  and  apologized  for  not  doing  it. 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  99 

"  'I've  got  rheumatism  pretty  bad/  says  he,  'and  if  you'll 
excuse  me  I  won't  get  up.  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Very 
glad,  sir.' 

"I  shook  hands  with  him  and  he  told  me  to  sit  down, 
which  I  did. 

"  'You've  been  doing  business  with  us  a  long  time,  my 
cashier  tells  me,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,'  he  said,  as  a  starter. 

"  'Ever  since  I've  had  business  to  do  with  any  "bank/ 
I  said.  'I  wish  I  had  more  to  do  with  you.' 

"  'Yes/  said  he,  'I  wish  you  had.  I'm  always  anxious 
to  see  our  customers  get  along  well/  he  said. 

"He  stopped  awhile  then  and  fooled  with  a  pen  or  some 
thing. 

"  'My  cashier  tells  me  that  you've  known  my  son  in 
Paris/  said  he,  at  last. 

"  'Yes  sir/  said  I;  'I  met  him  the  day  he  landed  there.' 

"  'Well,  well/  said  he.  'That's  interesting.  Do  you  go 
over  often?' 

"  'Four  times  a  year/  I  said. 

"  'Indeed/  said  he.  'You  travel  a  good  deal/  said  he. 
'Have  you  seen  much  of  John  on  your  other  trips?' 

"  'Well/  said  I,  'we  got  to  be  pretty  good  friends  that 
time,  and  I  always  look  him  up  when  I'm  in  town.' 

"  'Getting  on  pretty  well,  is  he  ?'  the  old  man  inquired. 
'You  can't  tell  much  from  his  letters.  He  isn't  the  kind  to 
brag  much/  he  said.  'But  he's  a  good  boy,  and  I  hope  he's 
doing  well  in  the  work  that  he  has  chosen.' 

"  'I  don't  know  much  about  art  work/  I  said,  'but  if  my 
judgment  is  any  good  at  all,  or  if  what  I  hear  about  his 
work  can  be  believed,  he's  doing  mighty  well.  I  know  a 
lot  of  people  in  the  Quarter  and  they  all  say  that  he's  one 
of  the  best  men  there.' 

"  'I'm  glad  of  that/  said  the  old  man.  'I'm  very  glad 
of  that!' 

"The  old  man  is  about  as  cold  a  proposition  as  anyone 
could  find,"  went  on  the  hat-buyer  to  Lizette,  who  was 
listening  with  absorbed  interest.  "I  could  see  that  he 
wanted  me  to  talk  about  John,  but  that  he  didn't  know 
just  how  to  question  me,  so  I  thought  I'd  help  by  going 
right  ahead  without  the  questions,  and  I  made  up  my 


100  LIZETTE. 

mind  that  Murdoch's  progress  shouldn't  lose  anything  by 
my  telling  of  it,  either.  Not  that  I  could  have  made  it 
any  better  than  it  really  was." 

"You  are  a  vairy  good  Mistaire  Fitzpatrick,"  said 
Lizette,  interrupting  him  for  the  first  time.  "Of  a  cer 
tainty  it  was  most  nice  of  you  to  praise  my  Pudgy." 

"Everybody  praises  him,"  said  Fitzpatrick,  "and  I  told 
the  old  man  so.  I  told  him  that  he  was  the  hardest  work 
ing  man  in  all  the  Quarter,  and  I  told  him  that  everybody 
said  he  was  one  of  the  best  men  who  had  ever  studied 
over  here.  I  said  that  when  he  began  to  show  his  work 
to  the  public  it  would  get  as  quick  recognition  as  it  had 
had  in  the  schools.  The  old  man  was  tickled  to  death. 
He  forgot  his  rheumatism  for  a  moment  and  again  said, 
very  slowly  and  emphatically,  'Well,  now,  I'm  glad  of  that. 
I  told  him  that  if  he  studied  painting  I  wanted  him  to  be 
a  damned  good  painter/  He  looked  at  me  and  laughed  a 
little.  'And  you  say  he  is  a  damned  good  painter/  he 
said,  looking  into  my  face  as  keenly  as  if  I'd  been  a 
stranger  who  was  trying  to  work  him  on  a  bad  check. 

"  'He  certainly  is  that/  said  I. 

"  'Dissipate  any/  said  he. 

"  'Not  a  bit/  said  I. 

"  'I  knew  he  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  fool/  said  he. 

"  'He  isn't/  I  answered. 

'"What  kind  of  a  place  does  he  live  in?  Ever  "been 
there?'  the  old  man  asked. 

"'Good  enough/  said  I.  'Comfortable  enough — noth 
ing  grand  about  it/  said  I. 

"  'No/  he  said.  'He  isn't  that  kind  of  a  fool,  either.  I 
wanted  to  get  over  there  to  see  him  this  summer/  fhe  old 
man  went  on.  'I  was  going  to  surprise  him.  But  I  can't 
get  away  from  here.  I'm  tied  down  here  tighter  than  a 
dry  goods  clerk  is  tied  down  to  his  counter.  And  now  I'm 
all  stiffened  by  this  rheumatism.  I'm  getting  old,  too.' 

"Thinking  of  the  rheumatism  seemed  to  make  it  hurt 
him,  for  he  twisted  up  his  face  as  if  he  had  a  twinge. 

"'Ever  had  the  rheumatism?'  he  asked. 

"  'No/  said  I. 
"  'Don't/  said  he. 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  101 

"  'I  won't/  said  I,  'if  I  can  help  it/ 

"  "That's  right/  said  he.     'You're  sensible/ 

"He  didn't  say  much  for  a  minute  or  two.  His  rheu 
matism  kept  him  busy.  Finally  he  "braced  up  and  asked 
me  if  Murdoch  had  ever  said  anything  to  me  about  com 
ing  back  to  New  York.  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  remem 
ber  that  he  had.  But  I  also  said  that  that  was  not  sur 
prising,  for  we  were  not  together  enough  for  him  to  tell 
me  everything  that  he  thought  about. 

"  'I  suppose  he'll  come  when  he  gets  a  chance/  said  the 
old  man.  'He's  a  good  boy.  I  never  was  so  much  surprised 
in  all  my  life  as  I  was  when  he  told  me  that  he  wanted 
to  be  an  artist,  but  I  knew  that  there  was  enough  of  me 
in  him  to  make  it  useless  for  me  to  tell  him  that  I  didn't 
want  him  to  be  one.  I'd  thought/  he  said,  'that  he'd  want 
to  come  in  here  and  take  my  place,  but  he  didn't.  He 
wanted  to  be  an  artist,  and  I'm  glad  he's  a  good  artist.  It 
would  make  me  mad  if  he  should  turn  out  to  be  a  bad  one.' 

"  'He  won't.'  I  said.  'He's  already  turned  out  to  be  a 
good  one/ 

"  'If  you  see  him  when  you  go  back/  said  the  old  man, 
'tell  him  that  I  called  you  in  to  talk  to  you  about  him. 
Tell  him  that  I'm  glad  he's  doing  well,  and  tell  him  that 
when  he  gets  a  chance  I  want  him  to  come  over  and  shake 
hands.  He'll  never  be  a  banker,  I  guess,  but  he'll  have  to 
have  something  or  other  to  do  with  this  concern  when  I 
am  gone.  He's  got  lots  of  sense,  that  boy,  even  if  he  is  an 
artist,  and  he'll  know  too  much  to  leave  his  business  en 
tirely  in  the  hands  of  other  people.  He'll  have  to  give 
some  time,  eventually,  to  this  bank,  pictures  or  no  pictures, 
and  he'll  do  it  well,  too.  I'm  not  afraid  of  that.  He's 
practical — I  know  that.  He  showed  it  in  school  and  col 
lege.  And  now  you  say  that  he's  a  good  artist,  too.  I 
didn't  suppose  an  artist  could  be  practical  or  a  practical 
man  an  artist.  Funny,  isn't  it?' 

"  'Unusual,  surely/  I  answered. 

"The  old  man  got  up  then.  A  clerk  had  Brought  in 
a  card  or  something.  'I'm  glad  you  came  in  to  see  me,  Mr. 
Fitzpatrick/  he  said  to  me.  'Drop  in  when  you  get  back 
from  Paris.  Tell  John  you  saw  me,  and  tell  him  to  come 


102  LIZETTE. 

over  when  he  can.  Tell  him  it  won't  be  very  long  before 
he'll  have  to  take  hold  here  some.  I'm  getting  old  and 
this  rheumatism  is  likely  to  end  my  work  here  before  long, 
I'm  afraid. 

"  'I  hope  not,  Mr.  Murdoch,'  I  said. 

"Well,  it  will  before  very  long,'  he  said.  'Tell  John  it 
will.  I'm  not  much  on  writing  letters.  Tell  him  to  come 
and  see  me  when  he  can/ 

"  'I  will,'  said  I. 

"  'Come  in  when  you  get  back/  said  he. 

"'I  will,'  said  I. 

"  <Good-by,'  said  he. 

"  'Good-by,'  said  I. 

During  the  telling  of  this  story  Lizette  had  sat  entirely 
quiet.  She  tried  hard  to  call  up  in  her  mind  a  picture  of 
this  old  man  who  was  her  Pudgy's  father.  How  proud  he 
must  be.  She  thought  that  she  would  have  liked  to  have 
seen  his  face  when  he  heard  that  Pudgy  had  won  the  Prix 
d'Honneur.  She  was  sure  that  he  must  have  felt  very 
pleased,  indeed.  But  then  that  worry  came  to  her  again — 
that  worry  which  had  been  the  only  jarring  note  at  the 
little  dinner  party  up  the  Seine.  The  father  expected 
John  to  go  back  to  New  York  and  run  the  bank.  And 
then?  And  then?  And  then?  What  would  become  of 
her  when  that  day  came? 

"Did — did  Pudgy's  father — speak  of  me?"  she  queried. 

"Why  no,"  Fitzpatrick  answered.  "Can't  say  that  he 
did.  He  don't  know  you,  you  know,  as  I  do.  He  don't 
know  how  much  you've  helped  his  son/*' 

The  hat-buyer  was  embarrassed  and  he  wondered  in 
stantly  if  he  had  not  been  in  error  in  telling  her  about  the 
interview.  Fitzpatrick  wondered  as  he  sat  there  and 
looked  at  her  how  the  whole  matter  would  turn  out.  He 
was  a  shrewd,  good-hearted  fellow,  was  Fitzpatrick,  and  he 
knew  that  Murdoch's  life  with  the  little  girl  who  sat  there 
then  before  him  was  no  mere  Latin  Quarter  episode,  to  be 
dropped  when  the  time  for  it  was  over  and  forgotten.  He 
wondered  how  it  would  turn  out  in  the  end.  He  knew 
how  it  ought  to  turn  out,  he  reflected.  John  Murdoch 
would  never  find  a  truer  woman,  if  he  searched  his  whole 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  JQ3 

life  through,  to  love  and  cherish  him  than  was  Lizette. 
He  idly  speculated  on  what  the  old  man  in  the  bank  would 
think  of  her,  and  decided  that  he  would  he  pleased  hy  her. 
He  had  gained  a  high  idea  of  the  old  man's  sense.  It 
would  be  distinctly  wretched  judgment  not  to  like  Eizette, 
he  thought.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  day  in  the 
bank  that  the  old  man  wouldn't  last  long.  He  seemed 
very  old  and  the  wearing  of  his  pain  showed  more  plainly 
on  him  than  he  had  told  Murdoch.  Fitzpatrick  did  not 
believe  that  Murdoch  would  ever  leave  Lizette.  He  was 
sorry,  now,  though,  that  he  had  talked  about  Murdoch's 
father  to  her.  It  was  not  like  him,  he  thought  to  himself, 
to  make  a  break  like  that,  and  he  swore  a  little,  noiselessly, 
but  fervently,  for  having  been  drawn  into  the  talk  about 
the  meeting  in  the  bank.  He  realized  that  it  might  worry 
her,  and  he  was  truly  sorry.  He  tried  to  be  gay  again  over 
the  hats  which  she  had  bought  for  him,  but  he  could  not 
bring  the  bright  spirits  which  were  habitual  to  her  back  to 
the  little  French  girl.  He  could  see  that  she  tried,  also, 
to  appear  light-hearted,  but  she  failed,  and  when  he  finally 
went  away  he  felt  that  he  had  given  her  poor  payment  for 
the  trouble  she  had  taken  for  him. 

That  night  she  spoke  to  Murdoch  about  it. 

"When  is  it  that  you  go  to  see  your  father?"  she  asked 
him,  suddenly. 

"To  New  York,  you  mean?"  he  said,  surprised. 

"Yais.  To  see  your  father  in  New  York?  Mr.  Fitz 
patrick  talked  to  me  of  heem  this  morning." 

And  she  told  Murdoch  the  conversation  in  as  great  de 
tail  as  she  could  remember  it. 

"It  is  that  he  mus'  have  the  gr-r-reat  pride  of  you,"  she 
said,  with  emphasis.  "And  it  is  that  he  has  the  very  great 
big  reason  for  to  have  the  pride.  As  also  I  have." 

Murdoch  was  sorry  in  a  vague,  indefinite  way  that  the 
hat-buyer  had  talked  to  Lizette  about  his  father.  Fitzpat- 
rick's  account  of  the  old  man's  sufferings  had  pained  him, 
too;  but  he  fancied  that  Fitzpatrick  had  exaggerated  them. 
Rheumatism  was  not  often  fatal.  His  father  had  been 
bothered  by  it  even  before  John  had  entered  college.  He 
showed  suffering  very  plainly,  always.  Strong  men,  who 


104  LIZETTE. 

have  had  little  illness  in  their  lives,  often  do.  But  his 
father  had  made  only  the  lightest  reference  to  it  in  his 
letters,  and  he  could  not  believe  that  it  was  very  serious, 
more  serious  than  it  often  had  been.  He  would  go  over 
to  see  him  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  when  he  did  he  would 
tell  him  about  Lizette  and  then  come  back  and  take  her 
over  to  him  as  his  wife.  Of  course,  he  should  say  nothing 
about  their  life  in  Paris.  That  would  be  foolish  and  un 
necessary. 

He  drew  Lizette,  who  sat  thoughtful  and  silent  on  the 
rug  beside  him,  up  into  his  arms,  and  almost  told  her  what 
his  plans  were — those  plans  which  had  taken  definite  form 
after  that  talk  with  the  great  woman  painter — those  plans 
which  had  a  wedding  for  their  central  episode.  But  again 
he  hesitated  This  was  not  quite  the  time.  And  again 
he  waited. 

Not  another  week  had  passed  before  the  blow  fell. 

Murdoch  knew  the  postman  on  that  route,  and  fre 
quently  took  letters  from  him  in  the  morning  as  he  went 
to  Julian's.  On  this  particular  morning  Murdoch  was  so 
muffled  up  against  a  blinding  rain  that  at  first  he  did  not 
see  the  postman,  but  the  latter  saw  him,  and  called  out  to 
him.  He  handed  him  a  letter  from  New  York  which 
Murdoch  recognized  instantly  as  coming  from  his  father. 
He  opened  it  as  he  walked  along,  holding  it  under  his  big 
rain  cape  so  that  it  should  not  get  wet.  He  had  not 
passed  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg  before  he  had  read 
it  all,  and  stopped,  almost  dazed.  It  was  like  all  his 
father's  letters,  very  short.  It  said: 

My  dear  son :  I  am  not  well.  I  hope  that  for  your  own  sake,  as 
well  as  mine,  you  will  find  it  convenient  to  come  over  to  see  me  at 
once.  If  your  art  work  is  not  to  claim  your  life,  come  over  and 
take  the  management  of  the  bank.  That  is  what  I  had  planned  for 
you,  as  you  know.  My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  must  give  it  up  or 
die.  I  have  no  wish  to  die  before  I  have  to.  Please  let  me  know 
your  pleasure  in  this  matter.  I  have  learned  that  you  have  taken 
an  important  prize.  I  am  glad  of  it.  Your  success  gratifies  me. 
It  may  be  that  you  will  wish  to  continue  as  an  artist.  I  hope  not. 
At  any  rate  come  over  here  to  see  me.  Truly  yours, 

JOHN  MURDOCH,  SB. 

For  the  second  time  John  Murdoch  missed  a  day  at 
Julian's.  He  stopped  beneath  the  trees  which  extended 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  105 

dripping  branches  out  over  the  sidewalk  from  the  Gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg.  It  was  almost  as  if  they  knew,  those 
trees,  as  if  they  knew  and  wept  for  the  little  girl  who  sat 
in  the  windows  of  the  studio  across  the  way  so  often,  and 
listened  to  the  twittering  of  the  birds  that  flew  among 
their  branches  and  heard  the  soft,  uprising  shouts  of  the 
children  who  played  upon  the  sward  beneath  them. 

He  retraced  his  steps  very  slowly,  and  climbed  the  studio 
stairs.  Lizette  was  at  work  within,  and  singing  as  she 
worked.  She  heard  his  step  and  heard  the  door-knob 
rattle  as  he  touched  it.  She  thought  it  was  the  char 
woman  coming  to  her  work  and  called  "come  in." 

John  Murdoch  knew  that  matters  must  be  very  bad,  in 
deed,  to  have  made  his  father  write  such  a  letter  to  him. 
The  story  of  his  worry  was  written  on  his  face  as  he  went 
in  so  plainly  that  Lizette  ran  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
around  his  great,  wet  shoulders  with  a  little  cry. 

"Oh,  Pudgy,  what  ees  eet  that  has  happen?" 

He  handed  her  the  letter.  She  read  it  while  he  laid 
aside  his  cloak  and  hat  and  sat  down,  thinking  moodily. 
After  she  had  read  the  letter  she  went  quickly  to  him,  and 
put  her  hands  upon  his  cheeks.  She  raised  his  face  and 
looked  at  him.  There  was  an  expression  of  real  pain  there 
which  cut  her  like  a  knife.  He  looked  at  her  and  tried  to 
smile,  but  made  bad  work  of  it. 

"When  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  simply.  She.  did  not 
question  the  wisdom  nor  the  necessity  for  his  departure. 
She  did  not  weep.  Her  eyes  took  on  a  very  dry  brilliance 
from  the  fever  of  the  heart  within  her,  but  she  made  no 
other  sign.  The  thing  had  come  to  her  which  ever  comes, 
eventually,  to  the  Latin  Quarter  girl,  and  she  tooR  it  as 
Fate.  Murdoch's  father,  who  loved  her  idol  and  who  was 
beloved  by  him,  was  ill  and  wished  to  have  him  at  his  side. 
Plainly  there  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done.  Tne  earth 
seemed  rising  and  the  heavens  coming  down  around  her, 
but  the  way  was  plain  for  Pudgy.  Murdoch  did  not  an 
swer. 

"When  ees  eet  that  you  go?"  she  asked  again. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Murdoch. 

Poor  little  Lizette!     She  knew.    She  told 


106  LIZETTE. 

"It  is  that  you  must  make  the  haste,"  she  said.  "If  it 
were  not  that  he  were  ill,  and  vairy,  vairy  ill,  he  would  not 
have  written  so.  When  it  is,  my  Pudgy,  that  the  first 
steamer  sails,  then  it  is  that  you  must  be  voyaging  upon  it." 

And  it  was  so. 

There  were  three  days  for  preparation.  Lizette  never 
wavered.  What  Fitzpatrick  had  said  had  sunk  more 
deeply  into  her  mind,  even,  than  it  had  into  Murdoch's. 
He  made  his  arrangements  at  his  classes.  He  gathered 
up  his  pictures  at  the  schools  and  spent  many  hours  in 
hanging  in  the  studio  those  which  he  liked  best.  "Part 
ing"  came  home,  and  he  hung  it  in  the  big  front  room, 
PO  that  it  was  well  lighted.  Kentucky  helped  him  hang 
his  pictures  and  arranged  a  row  of  gas  lights  over  "Part 
ing,"  which  set  it  off  at  night.  Murdoch  did  many  things 
to  the  old  studio  to  make  it  bright  and  pleasant,  which  he 
had  long  planned  to  do  and  long  neglected.  It  was  almost 
feverish,  the  way  he  spent  those  last  few  days  in  beautify 
ing  and  improving  it.  To  Lizette  it  almost  seemed,  one 
day,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  make  the  old  place  more 
attractive  so  that  he  would  be  certain  to  return. 

While  Murdoch  and  Kentucky  labored  at  the  studio, 
making  it  bright  and  beautiful,  Lizette  studied  those  per 
sonal  belongings  which  he  must  take  with  him. 
It  was  she  who  carried  his  shirts  to  the  Nanchiseuse 
and  brought  them  back  again.  With  a  table  knife 
Bhe  corrected  some  of  the  plaits  and  ruffles  in  their 
bosoms,  which  did  not  seem  to  her  to  be  properly  arranged 
for  the  vast  remoteness  and  great  grandeur  of  New  York 
City.  She  packed  his  trunks.  She  arranged  everything. 
She  did  strange  darning  on  his  socks.  She  was  especially 
disturbed  about  the  underwear  which  he  should  wear  on 
board  ship,  and  very  warm  garments,  properly  mended  and 
laundered  and  folded,  were  placed  in  the  very  top  of  his 
steamer  trunk,  so  that  he  could  easily  get  at  them  in  the 
case  of  stress  of  weather  which  she  thought  would  probably 
afflict  him  on  the  way  across  that  wonderful,  great  sea, 
which  he  had  told  her  of,  but  which  she  had  never  seen. 
He  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  go  with  him  as  far  as 
Liverpool,  but  she  said  no.  She  wanted  to  be  near  to  the 


A  SUMMONS  FOR  MURDOCH.  107 

old  studio,  so  that  she  could  get  there  quickly,  after  he  had 
said  good-by.  She  wept  not  once,  although  many  times  he 
choked  and  struggled  to  keep  back  the  tears  as  he  watched 
her  at  her  work. 

Her  smiling  face  was  the  last  thing  that  he  saw  as  the 
railroad  train  pulled  out  of  Paris. 

It  was  smiling  until  the  fluttering  handkerchief  in  his 
hand  held  from  the  railway  carriage  window  faded  in  her 
sight  from  a  cloth  reality  into  a  mere  white  speck,  indefi 
nitely  seen. 

But  then  she  wept. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  CALL  OF  DUTY. 

John  Murdoch  reached  New  York  in  time  to  ride  in  the 
old  family  carriage,  with  the  curtains  tightly  drawn,  as  the 
chief  mourner  at  his  father's  funeral,  but  too  late  to  clasp 
his  hand  in  life.  It  was  like  a  nightmare  to  him. 
That  four  years  had  passed  since  he  had  gone  away  seemed 
incredible.  He  could  not  definitely  feel  the  changes  in 
himself,  and  so  the  changes  in  other  people  seemed  all  the 
greater  to  him.  He  could  not  imagine  his  father,  pale  and 
thin,  worn  out  with  age  and  effort  as  the  encoffined  face 
had  shown  him  that  the  dead  man  had  been  before  he  died. 
It  was  a  solemn,  mournful  ride. 

His  relations  with  his  father  had  not  been  those  of  the 
fathers  and  the  sons  in  story  books.  They  had  been,  even 
in  John's  early  childhood,  good  friends  and  good  compan 
ions.  As  he  approached  to  man's  estate  they  had  been 
undemonstrative,  wholly  trusting.  After  John  had  fin 
ished  college — it  was  the  summer  before  he  had  gone  to 
Paris — they  had  been  a  pair  of  men  who  could  sit  together 
and  not  talk.  Each  had  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the 
other's  presence,  but  there  had  been  none  of  that  compan 
ionable  dependence  of  feeling  which  sometimes  is  found 
between  father  and  son,  oftener  is  known  by  mother  and 
child,-  and  always  exists — or  always  ought  to — between 
husband  and  wife.  He  felt  no  violence  of  grief  within 
that  carriage  as  he  drove  slowly  to  his  father's  funeral. 
That  he  should  even  have  known  a  feeling  of  real  loneli 
ness  is  one  of  those  psychological  phenomena  which  scien 
tists  can  best  explain.  As  he  rode  along  the  weary  way  to 
the  graveyard  that  day  he  wondered  what  the  professor  of 
psychology  at  college  would  have  said  about  it.  He  had 


THE  CALL  OF  DUTY.  109 

thought  of  the  governor's  death  before  it  came,  but  the 
thinking  of  it  had  never  meant  more  to  him  than  a  collec 
tion  of  mere  words.  Their  companionship  had  been  al 
most  unconscious.  They  had  been  separated  most  of  the 
time  since  John  Murdoch  had  been  big  enough  to  feel 
anything  strongly.  But  now  that  the  old  man  was  dead, 
was  actually  in  that  strangely  fashioned  casket,  in  that 
equally  curiously  shaped  wooden  wagon,  which  ho 
knew  was  going  on  ahead  of  him,  he  knew  that  that  com 
panionship  had  been  very  real.  He  had  scarcely  recog 
nized  the  body  in  that  box.  He  felt  that  only  then — when 
it  was  quite  too  late — he  really  appreciated  the  mind 
and  soul  and  mental  entity  which  had  passed  away  when 
life  had  left  that  'body. 

"When  the  past  came  to  his  mind  he  did  not  think  of 
college  days  or  of  his  life  in  Paris.  His  thoughts  were 
only  of  the  times  he  had  passed  with  his  father.  They  were 
not  especially  delightful  to  look  back  upon,  but  they  had 
always  been  eminently  satisfactory.  Just  before  the 
crowd  had  come  to  the  house  to  listen  to  the  short  prayer 
which  was  made  there  before  the  body  was  taken  to  the 
church  for  the  regular  funeral  service,  he  had  passed  his 
hands  along  the  smoothly  polished  sides  of  the  casket 
which  now  was  in  the  hearse  before  him  in  that  long  pro 
cession.  He  had  said  to  himself,  over  and  over  again,  as 
his  fingers  slipped  easily  across  the  shiny  surface  of  the 
wood: 

"Here  is  all  that  is  left  of  my  father.  This  is  all  that 
there  is  now  of  the  governor.  He  is  dead.  He  is  dead." 

But  he  had  not  realized  it  fully;  he  had  known  that  at 
the  time. 

When  he  got  home  at  last,  after  the  short  service  at  the 
grave,  he  sat  there  in  the  solemn,  still,  old  house,  without 
seeing  anybody  or  really  even  thinking  with  entire  coher 
ence.  The  old-established  order  of  things — his  art  work 
and  his  life  with  Lizette,  there  in  the  old  studio,  which 
overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg — had  seemed 
so  permanent.  The  feeling  in  him  that  the  governor  was 
over  here,  silent  and  reserved,  but  thinking  of  him  always, 
as  he  had  always  had  an  undercurrent  of  affectionate 


110  LIIETT&  »    • 

thought  for  him,  had  been  so  dear  to  him  that  it  was  hard 
almost  to  impossibility,  to  give  it  up.  His  heart  cried  out 
within  him  because  he  had  reached  New  York  too  late  to 
see  him  living  or  clasp  his  hand  again.  How  he  should 
miss  those  letters,  often  dictated  to  a  clerk  and  almost  as 
short  as  promissory  notes.  Eealization  came  very  slowly 
'to  him. 

By  and  by  the  butler  entered  and  put  down  by  Murdoch 
a  little  tray  containing  many  letters.  John  Murdoch 
turned  them  over  idly  in  his  hand.  He  knew  that  they 
were  letters  of  condolence  and  he  did  not  care  to  read 
them  then.  He  let  them  lie  upon  the  table  and  lapsed 
back  into  the  condition  of  sem>daze  in  which  he  had  been 
before  the  servant  interrupted  him. 

The  butler  hovered  respectfully  about,  putting  small 
things  to  rights.  He  had  told  the  other  servants  not  to 
enter.  It  was  kind  of  him  to  do  so.  He  liked  John  and 
had  known  him  since  he  had  been  a  little  'boy  in  buttons. 
After  he  had  finished  his  small  duties  he  inquired  if  there 
was  anything  that  he  could  do. 

"Yes,"  said  John  Murdoch,  "bring  me  a  drink." 

The  butler  brought  a  decanter  of  whiskey  and  some 
soda.  In  the  Latin  Quarter  Murdoch  had  never  drunk 
whiskey.  He  had  never,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  drunk 
heavily  before  in  all  his  life.  But  now  he  sat  there 
gloomily  and  drank  until  all  the  whiskey  in  the  decanter 
had  disappeared.  For  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  sat 
there  stupidly.  Later  the  butler  found  him  lying  on  the 
floor  and  took  him  up  to  bed.  It  is  probable  that  the 
butler  thought  bad  habits  had  come  to  his  young  master 
through  long  residence  in  Paris.  But,  really,  the  drinking 
had  been  purely  automatic. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  when 
he  awoke  and  he  suffered  as  men  who  have  drunk  too  much 
are  doomed  to  suffer.  Many  cards  and  all  the  letters  which 
he  had  not  looked  at  the  day  before,  as  well  as  many  new 
ones,  lay  in  neat  piles  on  a  small  table  by  his  bedside.  Now, 
with  his  head  throbbing  from  too  much  drink  and  an  in 
describable  feeling  of  remorse  and  shame,  he  looked  them 
over. 


THE  CALL  OF  DUTY.  HI 

One  was  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  he  opened  it  to  find  that 
Mary  Markleham  had  written  to  him.  She  was  so  sorry  (she 
wrote)  that  his  home-coming  had  been  so  sad  a  one.  She 
hoped  that  he  would  stay  long  in  New  York,  and  while  he 
lingered  she  hoped  that  he  would  find  time  to  come  to  see 
her  and  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Pascoe.  The  note  brought  back  to 
him  the  memory  of  the  night  when  he  had  hurt  Lizette 
and  searched  all  Paris  for  her,  after  he  had  lingered  at  the 
table  with  this  American  girl  who  now  wrote  to  him.  He 
never  liked  to  think  of  that  night  and  his  memory  hurried 
from  the  pain  of  it  to  brighter  days  there  with  Lizette — 
especially  to  the  dinner  by  the  Seine.  For  half  an  hour 
he  sat  there  with  Miss  Markleham's  open  letter  in  his  hand 
and  thought  of  Paris.  Then  he  went  slowly  through  the 
pile  of  uninteresting  letters  until  he  reached  its  very 
•  bottom. 

That  last  letter  was  thick  and  heavy,  and  on  it  were 
many  of  the  postage  stamps  of  France.  It  was  from 
Lizette  and  he  turned  to  it  eagerly.  She  did  not  know  about 
his  father's  death,  poor,  sympathetic  child — she  would 
have  wept  her  eyes  out  had  she  known  that  he  had  cause 
to  suffer — and  so  she  wrote  about  the  little  gossip  of  her 
life  alone  there  in  the  studio.  She  told  him  all  the  little 
things  that  she  had  done.  She  especially  made  merry 
over  her  first  experience  in  a  bank,  where  she  had  gone  to 
cash  a  check  which  he  had  left  with  her.  She  recounted 
Kentucky's  last  funny  story,  writing  partly  in  English,  but 
branching  off  into  French  whenever  she  found  that  sh? 
could  express  herself  better  in  that  language.  She  told 
him  of  the  love  that  was  throbbing  in  her  heart  for  him  as 
she  wrote,  and  he  could  feel  it,  breathed  out  from  every 
line  of  all  the  closely  written  pages.  She  had  only  had 
two  days  in  which  to  write  this  wondrous  letter,  yet  she 
had  put  all  the  little  things  which  she  had  thought  might 
interest  him  into  it. 

He  took  up  his  father's  business  affairs,  not  because  he 
wanted  to  take  them  up,  but  because  there  was  no  one  else 
to  do  it,  and  he  felt  that  at  least  he  must  look  after  the 
financial  interests  of  the  family.  Besides,  in  the  old 
man's  will  was  found  a  codicil,  stating: 


112  LIZETTE. 

"AND  FURTHER:  It  is  my  request  of  my  son  John  that  sub 
sequent  to  my  death  he  reside  in  New  York  and  endeavor  to  fit 
himself  to  take  charge  of  the  business  of  the  banking  house  of 
John  Murdoch,  changing  the  business  title  to  John  Murdoch's  Son. 
I  say  'endeavor,'  because  there  is  a  possibility  that  the  said  son 
John  may  find  it  impossible  so  to  do,  for  his  temperament  and 
abilities  may  lead  him  wholly  in  another  direction.  In  the  event 
.that  my  said  son  John  shall  find  this  to  be  the  case,  it  is  my 
request  that  he,  with  the  assistance  and  advice  of  Jeremiah  Smith, 
my  trusted  cashier,  Thomas  Morgan,  my  trusted  teller,  and  Acker, 
Alsopp  &  Platt,  my  trusted  attorneys,  take  such  steps  as  he  may 
find  fitting  to  wind  up  my  business  in  such  a  way  as  shall,  in  his 
judgment,  be  most  to  the  interest  of  the  heirs  named  in  this  in 
strument.  In  this  matter  my  son's  judgment  is  to  be  final  and  is 
not  to  be  set  aside  in  any  particular  by  the  judgment  of  the  other 
executors  named  in  this  instrument,  although  I  trust  that  he  will 
take  full  advantage  of  their  advice  and  counsel.  I  also  wish  to 
record  the  fact  that  so  far  from  having  been  distressed  by  my  son's 
tendency  toward  art,  I  have  been  highly  delighted  by  the  ability 
he  has  displayed  in  this  most  admirable  field,  and  in  this,  my 
last  will  and  testament,  do  hereby  tender  to  him  my  heartiest  con 
gratulations,  as  I  also  tender  to  him  my  earnest  love." 

In  the  working  of  a  banking  house  things  must  go  on 
like  clock-work.  There  could  be  no  delay  in  the  accom 
plishment  of  what  rearrangement  was  necessary  in  the 
affairs  of  his  late  father's  business,  and  there  in  the  same 
old  chair,  at  the  same  old  desk,  in  the  same  old  room,  John 
Murdoch  was  sitting  the  third  day  after  the  funeral,  trying 
to  learn  the  things  which  his  new  life  made  it  necessary 
that  he  should  know.  He  was  promptly  elected  to  fill  the 
vacancy  caused  by  his  father's  death,  as  president  of  the 
corporation.  All  the  directors  knew  that  this  had  been  his 
father's  wish,  and  they  felt  that  they  should,  at  least,  give 
the  son  a  trial.  In  any  event,  his  control  of  a  majority  of 
the  stock  would  have  settled  that.  There  was  much  com 
ment  in  the  newspapers  and  elsewhere.  For  a  young  man 
who  had  been  devoting  all  his  time  since  college  to  study 
ing  art  in  Paris  to  become  the  president  of  a  bank  seemed 
most  absurd.  And,  besides,  this  same  young  man  had  won 
honors  with  his  painting!  This  made  it  worse.  There 
were  a  few  customers  who  withdrew  their  deposits,  Tmt  the 
old  directors,  men  in  whom  all  New  York  had  confidence, 
told  such  satisfying  tales  of  John  that  they  soon  returned 
them  again,  for  John  Murdoch  was  putting  the  same 


THE  CALL  OF  DUTY. 

energy  and  application  into  the  task  of  learning  the  bank 
ing  business  that  had  won  him  his  prize  in  Paris.  Night 
and  day,  day  and  night,  he  studied  the  unwelcome  prob 
lems  of  his  new  field  with  an  energy  that  was  untiring, 
with  rapidly  growing  intelligence  and  with  what  quickly 
became  a  real  satisfaction.  It  had  not  been  genius  that 
had  made  Murdoch  do  well  in  Paris;  it  had  been  hard 
work.  It  was  not  genius,  but  hard  work,  that  made  him 
do  well  in  New  York. 

He  missed  one  mail  in  answering  Lizette's  letter.  When 
he  did  answer  it  he  sent  one  to  her  which  was  shorter,  far, 
than  hers  had  been  to  him,  but  that  was  to  be  expected  of 
a  man.  He  told  her  of  his  father's  death  and  he  explained 
to  her  about  the  codicil  in  the  will  in  a  way  that  touched 
her  susceptible  little  heart  much  more  deeply  than  she 
was  able  to  express  to  him  in  her  next  letter.  He  told  her 
that  he  should  be  detained  in  New  York  some  time,  but 
that  it  should  not  be  very  long  before  he  should  go  back 
to  Paris,  to  her.  He  explained  to  her  that  it  could  not  be 
a  very  long  time  that  he  could  stay  away  from  her.  He 
told  her  in  the  same  words  which  he  had  whispered  in  her 
ear  a  thousand  times,  when  they  had  been  together,  that  he 
loved  her.  He  sent  her  a  little  money.  He  knew  that  she 
would  have  been  literally  frightened  by  a  large  sum.  He 
asked  about  Kentucky,  and  by  the  same  mail  he  wrote  to 
him,  begging  that  faithful  friend  to  look  after  Lizette  and 
watch  over  her  as  if  she  were  his  sister.  And  he  sent  the 
large  sum  to  Kentucky,  to  be  used  for  her  as  might  be 
necessary,  but  asking  him  to  take  some  of  it  for  himself, 
for  he  knew  that  if  he  did  not  Kentucky  would  have  to 
paint  those  little  pictures  and  might  be  forced  sometimes 
to  neglect  his  charge.  She  had  taught  him  to  be  thought 
ful  of  her,  as  she  ever  was  of  him,  and  he  warned  her  that 
as  winter  was  approaching  she  should  provide  herself  with 
warm  clothing  and  buy  a  new  stove  for  the  studio.  The 
old  one  was  pretty  well  burned  out. 

Indeed,  Lizette  was  ever  in  his  thoughts  during  all  those 
moments  when  they  were  not  upon  his  business,  but  those 
moments  were  not  many.  Swarms  of  old  friends 
descended  upon  him  and  many  new  ones  sought  recogni- 


114  LIZETTE. 

tion.     But  he  was  true  to  big  old  love  and  his  old  friends 
in  Paris,  so  far  as  his  business  would  permit  him  to  be. 

But  somehow  that  business  grew  ever  more  exacting. 
By  some  strange  combination  in  his  brain,  it  made  him  for 
get  the  pictures  he  had  painted  and  which  he  had  thought 
would  absorb  the  working  interest  of  all  his  life.  In  one 
letter  he  spoke  to  Lizette  especially  about  his  pictures,  all 
of  which  were  now  in  his  studio  in  Paris.  John  Murdoch 
had  never  sold  a  picture.  He  asked  her  to  care  for  them 
and  spoke  of  them  as  "our  pictures,"  which  touched  her 
tender  little  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN  THE  TOILS  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Kentucky  wrote  to  Murdoch  frequently,  and  fine,  manly 
letters  he  wrote.  He  was  glad  to  look  after  Lizette,  he 
said,  for  she  was  well  worth  looking  after. 

"Old  man/'  Kentucky  said  in  one  of  his  letters,  "can't 
you  come  over  soon?  The  little  one  is  keeping  up  bravely, 
but  she  droops,  my  boy,  she  droops.  You  could  never 
have  known  of  her  real  devotion  to  you  while  you  were 
with  her,  but  now  that  you  are  gone  she  shows  it  to  me. 
She  does  not  complain,  and  she  is  not  ill,  but,  dear  old 
fellow,  her  wee  little  smiles  are  sometimes  almost  more 
pitiful  than  tears.  She  lives  in  the  past.  It  is  'Pudgy 
said  this'  and  Tudgy  said  that,'  all  the  time.  You  should 
see  the  studio — charming,  as  it  always  was,  and  always 
ready  for  your  home-coming.  Always  ready,  old  man! 
Aren't  you  ever  coming  home?  Damn  your  banking  busi 
ness!  What  is  the  use  of  spoiling  a  good  artist  to  make  a 
bad  banker?  There  are  too  many  bankers  already." 

This  letter  worried  Murdoch.  He  saw  the  pathos  of  it 
and  he  told  his  colleagues  at  the  bank  that  he  must  take 
a  vacation.  Winter  and  summer  had  gone  by  this  time 
and  autumn  was  well  advanced.  He  told  them  that  he 
should  only  be  gone  a  little  while,  and  then  he  cabled  to 
Lizette  that  he  should  sail  the  next  day  and  asked  her  to 
meet  him  on  the  dock  at  Havre.  A  message  from  Paris 
came  back  almost  as  quick  as  thought: 

"No,  not  at  Havre.     At  home.     Oh,  Pudgy!" 

His  eyes  filled  as  he  read  her  message  and  he  sent  word 
to  the  big  brown-stone  house  uptown  that  his  traps  were 
to  be  packed  and  brought  down  to  the  bank  for  a  long 
absence.  He  planned  to  work  all  night  that  night  in 


116  LIZETTE. 

order  that  he  might  arrange  all  those  matters  of  dignified 
business  which  were  concerned  with  that  dignified  bank. 

His  decision  to  take  a  bit  of  a  rest  met  with  the  full 
approval  of  the  directors.  He  had  heen  working  too  hard; 
they  all  saw  that  and  they  also  saw  that  he  was  a  very 
extraordinary  young  "banker  and  should  not  be  permitted 
to  overwork. 

One  of  the  directors,  a  venerable  old  gentleman,  who 
had  devoted  his  whole  life  to  the  matter  of  money,  patted 
him  respectfully  on  the  back  and  said: 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Murdoch.  Get  a  little  sea  air.  It 
will  do  you  good.  You're  a  chip  off  the  old  block,  a  chip 
off  the  old  block.  Just  like  your  father!  Slow  to  think, 
but  quick  to  act!  A  chip  off  the  old  block!" 

So  they  all  thought  him.  They  knew  nothing  of 
Lizette. 

It  was  before  the  end  of  banking  hours  that  a  respectful 
servant  brought  his  luggage  to  the  bank.  It  was  piled  in 
a  neat  heap  in  the  corner  of  the  president's  room.  It  was 
eminently  respectable  leather  luggage,  as  should  be  that  of 
the  president  of  a  bank.  Murdoch  gave  the  man  some  in 
structions  about  the  management  of  the  residence  and  dis 
missed  him.  He  knew  that  he  should  be  at  the  bank  all 
night  making  the  necessary  preparations  for  his  absence, 
and  he  told  the  man  to  come  back  to  the  bank  the  next 
morning  at  nine  o'clock,  for  the  steamer  sailed  at  ten,  and 
sent  him  to  the  steamship  office  to  buy  his  passage. 

He  had  scarcely  started  on  this  errand  when  the  cashier 
entered  the  private  office  with  as  much  excitement  showing 
on  his  face  as  was  seemly  in  that  banking  house. 

He  held  in  his  hand  a  little  slip  of  paper  which  had  just 
been  brought  in  by  a  breathless  messenger. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  here  is  bad  news 
from  Jones  &  Co." 

Now  Jones  &  Co.  were  among  the  largest  connections 
that  the  bank  had,  and  it  had  been  supposed  for  fifty 
years  that  no  bad  news  could  ever  come  from  them.  But 
here  it  was,  notwithstanding.  With  the  closing  of  its 
doors  for  the  day,  the  great  firm  had  gone  down  with  a 
crash  that  must  carry  many  with  it. 


IN  THE  TOILS  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE.  H7 

"Hum!"  said  John,  with  the  characteristic  impassivity 
of  the  banking  house.  "Yes.  That  is  bad  news.  How 
much  are  we  involved,  Mr.  Smith?" 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell  without  a  careful  account 
ing.  I  can  let  you  know  by  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Hum!"  said  John  Murdoch  again,  thinking  of  the 
steamer  that  was  to  sail  at  ten,  and  thinking  of  Lizette, 
to  whom  the  ship  was  to  have  carried  him. 

"All  right.  Get  it  for  one  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  had 
planned  to  go  away  to-morrow  morning,  you  know.  I  dis 
like  to  change  my  plans  if  a  change  can  be  avoided." 

"I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  a  very  bad  matter,  indeed," 
the  cashier  responded,  with  an  air  of  one  who  knew  for 
certain  that  those  plans  would  have  to  be  revised. 

"Hum,"  said  John  Murdoch,  thoughtfully.  He  reached 
for  a  cable  blank  to  the  little  rack  at  the  back  of  the 
solemn  desk  at  which  his  father  had  worked  for  so  many 
years.  He  wrote: 

"Delayed  by  serious  business  matter  last  moment.  Will 
sail  as  soon  as  possible.  May  not  be  for  some  time." 

For  the  more  he  thought  about  the  failure  the  more  he 
knew  that  such  news  from  Jones  &  Co.  was  likely  to  be  bad 
news,  indeed,  and  that  his  presence  would  be  needed  in 
New  York. 

When  he  returned  to  his  desk  he  rang  for  a  boy  and  sent 
him  out  to  cancel  the  steamship  passage.  Again  business 
had  intervened  to  keep  him  from  his  love. 

When  he  had  hoped  to  sail  the  next  morning  he  had 
planned  to  work  all  night.  Now  that  he  was  forced  to 
give  his  journey  up  the  business  of  the  failure  kept  him 
at  his  desk  as  steadily  as  he  would  have  been  if  the  reason 
for  his  industry  had  been  that  other  and  more  pleasant 
one.  The  doors  were  locked,  but  every  gas  jet  in  the  great 
offices  flared  and  sputtered  as  the  bookkeepers  labored  at 
the  figures  made  necessary  by  the  failure,  and  in  the  presi 
dent's  room  John  Murdoch  sat  to  hear  their  reports  and 
see  what  could  be  done.  It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when 
a  loud  pounding  on  the  door  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
clerk,  who  went  to  open  it.  He  took  a  cable  message  in  to 
Murdoch.  It  was  from  Kentucky  and  it  read: 


118  LIZETTE. 

"You  don't  understand  the  situation.  Your  message 
saying  that  you  could  not  come  has  shocked  her  greatly. 
Have  just  left  her.  Your  delays  have  made  her  ill,  but  she 
wouldn't  let  me  tell  you.  Confound  business.  Don't  let 
anything  delay  you." 

For  the  second  time  that  night,  John  Murdoch  sat  in  a 
brown  study  at  his  desk.  A  great  conflict  went  on  within 
him.  His  duty  was  in  the  bank.  Of  that  there  could  be 
no  doubt  whatever.  The  people  whose  trust  his  father 
had  fully  earned  by  years  of  integrity  and  hard  work  now 
placed  their  confidence  in  him.  His  leaving  now  might 
mean  much  to  them.  He  carefully  thought  out,  and  prob 
ably  with  truth,  that  had  it  been  so  that  the  loss  would 
have  been  all  his,  should  his  departure  cause  loss,  he  would 
have  taken  it  and  gone.  But  it  would  not  be  all  his.  The 
people  whose  confidence  in  the  bank  was  based  upon  the 
reputation  of  his  father  for  never  failing  vigilance  and 
faithfulness  in  the  handling  of  their  money,  now  trusted 
him.  He  had  accepted  this  confidence  of  theirs,  and  he 
must  not  betray  it.  He  had  taken  Lizette's  confidence,  too, 
but  he  was  not  betraying  that;  he  was  only  delaying  His 
groing  to  her  until  it  should  be  possible  for  him  to  go  with 
right. 

Murdoch  sent  for  Mr.  Smith. 

"How  are  you  getting  along  with  the  Jones  matter?"  he 
asked. 

"Much  faster  than  I  thought  we  could,  Mr.  Murdoch. 
We  shall  know  exactly  where  we  stand  before  we  open  in 
the  morning." 

"Look  very  bad?" 

"Much  worse  than  I  had  believed  at  first,"  responded 
Smith.  "I  am  more  than  glad  that,  if  it  did  happen,  it 
happened  before  you  had  gone  away,  Mr.  Murdoch.  It's 
a  bad  business." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Murdoch,  with  a  tired  sigh.  "I'm 
very  sorry  that — " 

He  had  almost  said  that  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  not 
been  safely  on  the  ocean,  where  banking  business  must 
take  second  place,  when  the  crash  had  come,  but  he  did  not 
finish. 


IN  THE  TOILS  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE.  H9 

He  wrote  another  cablegram  and  sent  it  to  Kentucky. 
It  said: 

"Sorry.  Can't  leave.  Very  serious  matter  involving 
others  than  self  detains  me.  Explain  to  her.  Get  best 
doctors.  Do  everything.  Will  cable  remittance  to-mor 
row/' 

Next  day  he  received  an  answer  which  was  characteristic 
of  Kentucky: 

"Had,  of  course,  done  all  I  could  before  you  cabled/'  the 
message  read.  "She  don't  need  doctors.  She  needs  you. 
You  make  me  wild  with  your  business.  Come." 

When  the  full  report  of  the  failure  of  Jones  &  Co.  was 
turned  over  to  him,  Murdoch  found  that  the  banking 
house  of  John  Murdoch's  Son  would  not  lose  heavily  by  it, 
but  he  found  that  certain  old  and  very  highly  respected 
customers  of  the  house  were  likely  to,  if  he  went  away.  He 
cabled  to  doctors  and  sent  one  over  from  London  to  see  the 
girl  in  the  studio,  telling  him  to  report  by  cable.  He  did, 
as  follows: 

"Puzzling  case.  General  despondency  has  resulted  in 
great  physical  depression.  Very  emotional  and  might 
prove  serious  with  such  a  temperament.  Advise  imme 
diate  change  of  air  and  scene.  Suggest  South." 

Murdoch  acted  accordingly  and  cabled  both  Kentucky 
and  Lizette,  giving  the  former  unlimited  credit.  He  ex 
plained  his  own  situation  fully  and  felt  sure  they  both 
would  understand  and  agree  that  he  must  not  desert  his 
place  of  trust  at  such  a  time. 

To  this  dispatch  Kentucky  made  reply  as  follows: 

"All  right,  you  idiot,  but  it's  all  wrong." 

So  Kentucky  and  Lizette  went  down  to  Italy.  Ken 
tucky's  letters  at  this  time  were  almost  as  pathetic  as  they 
were  profane,  which  is  saying  much.  He  repeated  that  it 
was  not  doctors  but  Murdoch's  presence  that  Lizette 
needed,  and  he  said  things  which  he  would  not  have  said 
to  any  one  whom  he  did  not  love  in  his  strangely  brusque 
and  ingenuous  way.  He  told  John  Murdoch  what  he  really 
thought. 

"Murdoch,"  he  wrote,  "you  are  an  incorrigible  ass.  The 
little  girl  is  eating  out  her  heart  for  a  mere  sight  of  you. 


120  LIZETTE. 

You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  this  is  an  extraordinary 
case.  I  can't  in  my  heart  believe  that  you  class  it  with 
other  'affairs  of  the  Quarter'  which  you  and  I  both  know 
of.  If  I  believed  that  I  should  damn  you  so  that  my  voice 
should  reach  across  the  ocean.  And  your  memory?  I 
would  spit  on  it.  She  does  not  complain  in  words,  but  in 
lack-lustre  eyes  and  lagging  step;  in  languid  hand  and 
paling  face  her  heart's  complaint  is  voiced,  and  if  you  fail 
to  hear  it  it  means  that  yours  is  deaf — deaf  to  the  little 
one  for  whose  slightest  sigh  or  whisper  it  should  always 
listen  keenly.  I  have  to  go  to  some  obscure  cafe  to  write 
these  letters  to  you,  for  if  she  found  that  I  was  telling 
you  the  truth  about  her  it  would  deeply  hurt  her.  She 
would  hate  me  if  she  thought  that  I  was  giving  you  'the 
bother/  I  can't  believe  that  you  thought  for  a  moment 
that  the  money  you  told  me  to  use,  that  damned,  unlimited 
credit  that  you  gave  me,  would  ease  her  aching  heart  at 
all.  What  does  she  care  for  money?  She  wants  you. 

Aside  from  railroad  fares  and  hotel  bills  on  this  South 
ern  trip  I  have  only  been  able  to  spend  two  hundred  and 
fifty  francs  for  her.  I  used  to  think  that  you  were  a  great 
fellow,  that  at  last  I'd  found  a  man.  But  the  way  you're 
acting  drives  me  crazy.  Don't  you  see,  old  man — you 
damned,  unfeeling,  unthinking,  mercenary,  rotten  old 
man  of  "business — can't  you  see  that  you  are  letting  the 
greatest  little  girl  the  world  ever  saw  go  to  everlasting 
smash  without  you?  Why  don't  you  come,  you  idiot? 
She's  simply  passing  away  from  sheer  love  of  you.  It's  a 
pity  and  a  shame.  I'm  going  to  say  something  to  you 
that  I  ought  not  to  say,  perhaps;  that  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  I  never  would  say.  But  you  need  it.  It  ought  to 
be  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  it  to  you.  You  ought  to 
know  it  and  feel  it  for  yourself. 

"You  are  throwing  away  the  best  part  of  the  best  life 
that  a  man  ever  knew  by  your  delays,  and  you  are  an  idiot. 
1  love  you  as  I  would  a  brother.  I  love  you  as  I  love  Lizette, 
and  certainly  no  father  ever  loved  a  daughter  better  than 
I  love  Lizette.  Ah!  If  she  were  my  daughter — if  she  only 
were  the  little  daughter  whom  I  lost  just  as  I  had  begun 
to  learn  the  grandeur  of  a  father's  love  so  many  years  ago 


IN  THE  TOILS  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE.  121 

— but  no,  I  could  not  love  her  more  dearly  than  I  do.  I 
have  tried  to  play  a  little  game  sometimes  in  which  part 
of  the  play  was  that  my  little  one  had  grown  up  and  was 
she.  What  happiness!  What  pride!  If  only  it  were  true!  If 
I  did  not  love  her  so,  it  would  not  tear  my  heart  to  shreds 
to  see  her  sorrowing  in  silence.  If  I  did  not  love  you  so 
I'd  tell  her  to  let  you  go,  and  make  her  do  it,  too.  I'd 
lie  to  her  about  you  and  make  her  think  that  you  were  a 
scoundrel,  which  you're  not.  You're  merely  an  abnor 
mally  developed  fool.  If  I  did  not  love  you  so  I  wouLl 
not  take  the  trouble  to  abuse  you.  It's  a  bother.  It  works 
me  up  and  makes  my  hand  shake  worse  than  absinthe  used 
to.  Why  don't  you  come  over  here,  you  great  big,  hulk 
ing  jackass,  and  marry  the  only  woman  whom  you  will  ever 
love — the  only  woman  who  will  ever  love  you. 

"I  could  tell  you  a  tale  about  my  own  beginnings,  J  ohn 
Murdoch — a  tale  with  as  bright  an  opening  chapter  as 
yours  has  had,  but  with  final  words  of  tragedy,  as  yours 
will  have  if  you  do  not  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  as  I  know  your 
own  heart  tells  you  to.  If  I  could  only  get  a  chance  to  talk 
to  you!  But  I  can't  write  it.  It  is  a  story  of  great  happi 
ness — lost.  Of  great  hopes — lost.  Of  possibilities  of  joy 
as  great  as  yours  are — lost.  Its  ending  is  this  sordid,  sad 
dened,  sodden  life  of  mine.  Don't  do  it,  boy.  Don't  risk 
it.  Don't.  Throw  everything  aside  and  be  glad  God 
gives  to  you  the  chance.  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it,  and  then  you'll  know  why  it  is  that  my  anxiety  for  both 
of  you  is  greater  than  any  anxiety  that  I  could  possibly 
know  for  myself.  For  her  sake,  come.  For  your  sake, 
come.  For  my  sake,  come.  Your  friend.  KENTUCKY. 

But  Murdoch  could  not  go.  His  new  life  had  developed 
characteristics  which  even  he  had  not  guessed  at  until 
this  crisis  brought  them  out.  With  the  coming  of 
emergency,  the  stubborn  determination  which  had  been  his 
father's  secret  of  success  rose  uppermost.  He  had  care 
fully  thought  out  his  duty  to  his  business  connections,  who 
had  placed  their  trust  in  him  as  they  had  placed  it  in  the 
father  who  had  been  before  him,  and  despite  his  yearnings 
for  the  little  one,  despite  Kentucky's  gloomy  letters, 
despite  the  fact  that  hers  grew  short  and  infrequent,  al- 


122  LIZETTE. 

though  they  never  failed  to  breathe  her  love  for  him,  he 
held  his  course.  He  knew  that  it  would  not  be  long  be 
fore  his  business  duty  would  release  him  and  he  could  go 
to  her,  and  he  felt  really,  in  his  heart,  that  he  had  suffered 
from  the  separation,  too,  and  that  when  he  finally  went  to 
her  and  told  her  what  he  had  to  tell  about  the  reasons  for 
his  waiting,  told  her  what  he  had  to  tell  about  the  unfail 
ing  faithfulness  of  his  great  love,  told  her,  as  he  had  re 
solved  to  tell  her,  that  he  wanted  her  to  marry  him,  so  that 
nothing  should  ever  separate  them  more,  that  then  her 
grief  and  doubting  all  would  pass,  and  she  would  under 
stand  and  say  that  he  had  done  that  thing  which  had  been 
right  for  him  to  do. 

Spring  came  and  Kentucky  wrote  to  him  that  fhey  had 
gone  back  to  Paris.  Lizette,  he  said,  was  weary  of  every 
thing  that  did  not  talk  to  her  about  her  happy  days  with 
Murdoch  in  the  past.  She  yearned  so  for  the  old  sur 
roundings  that  he  had  yielded  to  her  pleading  and  in 
stalled  her  in  the  old  studio  again. 

"I  know  you'll  come,  old  man,"  he  wrote,  "when  you 
can  get  that  infernal  conscience  of  yours  to  let  your  busi 
ness  slide,  but  when  you  see  her  you  will  be  shocked.  She 
has  changed  greatly  in  her  looks  and  manner." 

This  letter  had  been  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  morn 
ing's  pile  of  mail,  which  always  was  the  first  business  of  his 
day.  He  had  scarcely  finished  reading  it  when  the  cashier 
came  in  to  tell  him  that  before  the  day  was  over  the  last 
tangle  of  the  Jones  &  Co.  failure  would  have  "been  straight 
ened  out  and  handed  to  him  a  balance-sheet  which  summed 
up  the  details  of  his  work  in  settling  the  affairs  of  the  de 
funct  concern.  It  showed  that  through  his  careful  man 
agement  he  had  saved  from  material  loss  all  those  people 
who  could  rightfully  look  to  him  for  help.  This  was  balm 
to  Murdoch's  spirit. 

The  first  great  struggle  of  his  business  life  had  been 
creditably  won. 

Now  he  could  go  to  her. 

He  felt  in  many  ways  much  as  he  hal  felt  that  morning 
when  he  had  won  the  Prix  d'Honneur  in  Paris.  Then  he 
had  been  quietly  elated.  He  had  almost  failed  to  under- 


IN  THE  TOILS  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE.  123 

stand  Lizette's  wild  exuberance  of  joy;  now  his  hired 
cashier  showed  more  outward  signs  of  enthusiasm  over 
this  new  victory  than  he  did. 

On  that  morning  he  had  sat  looking  over  at  the  swaying 
trees  in  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  quietly  trium 
phant,  silently  enjoying  the  sensations  of  success.  But  she 
had  danced  around  him,  a  crazed,  delighted  little  elf,  al 
most  beside  herself  with  joy.  He  told  the  cashier  to  see 
that  no  one  bothered  him  while  he  examined  that  final 
balance-sheet,  but  when  he  was  alone  he  did  not  think  of 
it.  Instead,  he  thought  of  her  and  wondered  how  she 
would  feel  if  she  were  there  to  share  this  new  success  with 
him.  He  tried  to  picture  her,  not  in  the  studio — that 
would  be  no  place  to  think  of  victories  of  finance — but  in 
a  window  of  the  solemn  brown-stone  mansion  uptown,  get 
ting  the  news  that  he  had  won  this  fight.  He  could  not 
see  her  there,  even  in  his  imagination.  She  did  not  fit 
the  place.  He  wondered  where  he  should  find  in  all  New 
York  a  place  fit  for  her  daintiness.  But  he  would  find  one 
now,  and  go  to  fetch  her  to  it.  And  old  Kentucky — he 
should  come  too,  if  he  would.  He  had  been  the  genuine 
man,  the  real  friend.  He  would  go  at  once  and  get  them 
both.  But  now,  before  he  did  another  thing,  he  felt  that 
he  must  write  to  her,  and  tell  her  all  he  had  to  tell.  It 
was  not  a  long  letter  that  he  wrote,  but  it  said  much  to  her 
— more  than  he  had  ever  said  before.  He  smiled  happily 
as  he  put  the  seal  upon  it,  and  wondered  if  its  contents 
would  please  that  woman  artist  who  had  talked  to  him  so 
frankly  while  she  stood  there  in  her  hallway  with  her 
brush,  loaded  with  cheap  paint  for  worthless  servants,  in 
her  hand. 

One  or  two  of  the  directors  and  other  business  people, 
who  would  naturally  hear  quickly  of  his  business  victory, 
came  in  to  congratulate  the  young  man  who  had  won  it,  as 
his  father  would  have  won  it,  despite  the  fact  that  for  a 
time  he  had  spent  his  days  in  Paris,  studying  a  foolish 
thing  called  Art.  He  was  not  effusive.  To  them  he 
seemed,  even  as  he  had  seemed  to  Lizette,  on  that  other 
day,  almost  too  indifferent.  It  occurred  to  many  of  them, 
ae  he  stood  there  with  the  weary  lines  deepening  on  his 


124  LIZETTE. 

face  from  the  effects  of  relaxation,  that  he  might  be  so 
tired  that  he  could  not  appreciate  the  taste  of  victory's 
fruit.  The  same  old  director  who  had  slapped  him  on  the 
back  and  told  him,  months  "before,  that  he  ought  to  take 
the  vacation  which  he  had  earned  and  then  proposed  to 
take,  came  in  again,  and  again  went  through  his  motions. 

"Well,"  said  Murdoch,  smiling  gravely,  "this  time  I  am 
going." 

He  called  a  messenger  and  gave  that  letter  to  Lizeite  to 
him  to  mail,  and  then  he  went  to  work  again. 

It  was  a  busy  day  for  him.  No  one  could  see  the 
slightest  reason,  now,  why  he  should  not  take  the  short 
rest  which  the  short  trip  he  told  them  he  had  planned 
would  give  to  him.  He  had  done  wonderfully  well,  and 
might  go  away  and  feel  content. 

He  left  the  bank  as  early  as  he  could,  and  as  he  drove 
up  Broadway  went  to  sleep.  The  strain  was  over,  and 
now  his  weariness  was  overpowering.  He  scarcely  waited 
for  his  dinner,  and  went  early  to  bed  to  dream  about 
Lizette  and  a  new  home  for  her,  where  she  should  find 
a  place  for  all  her  daintinesses. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOE. 

Murdoch  woke  early  the  next  morning,  feeling  bright 
and  rested.  That  had  been  rare  lately.  The  hour  at 
which  he  ordered  coffee  surprised  his  cook.  He  read  his 
newspaper  while  he  waited  for  it,  and  studied  sailing  lists. 
A  steamer  was  to  sail  that  very  day  at  noon,  and  he  wasted 
no  time  in  deciding  to  sail  with  her.  That  leather  lug 
gage  was  pulled  out  and  packed  again  and  started  down 
town  to  the  bank  before  he  ate  his  breakfast.  Now  that  he 
could  go,  he  wanted  to  go  quickly.  There  must  be  no 
more  delays.  He  smiled  quietly  as  he  found  himself  de 
claring  inwardly  that  nothing  should  make  him  wait  again, 
that  no  failure,  if  it  were  of  the  bank's  most  solid  cus 
tomer,  should  keep  him  in  New  York  a  minute  after  that 
ship  sailed.  He  sent  hurrying  messengers  to  call  an  early 
morning  meeting  of  the  Board  to  be  held  at  the  bank  in 
time  for  him  to  get  through  with  it  and  go.  He  wrote  a 
few  short  notes  to  friends  and  hastened  downtown. 

His  luggage  reached  there  before  he  did  himself,  and 
was  piled  neatly  and  with  its  air  of  eminent  brown-leather- 
bound  respectability  in  a  corner  of  his  room.  The  meet 
ing  of  the  Board  was  held  and  ended  before  the  hour  for 
opening  came.  The  directors  all  approved  of  his  decision, 
and  all  said  that  he  did  things  as  his  father  had — quickly, 
when  he  once  got  started  at  them.  They  knew  he  needed 
rest  and  were  glad  to  have  him  go. 

At  about  the  time  the  bank  opened  a  clerk  came  in  and 
told  Murdoch  that  a  man  who  refused  to  give  his  name 
waited  outside  to  see  him. 

"I  am  very  busy  and  am  just  going  away.  Ask  him  if 
his  business  can't  be  done  by  some  one  else." 

"1  did,  sir,  but  he  told  me  that  he  was  an  old  friend  of 


126  LIZETTE. 

yours  and  wished  to  see  you  personally.  He  would  not 
even  give  his  name.  He  is  a  strange  looking  man  with  a 
queer  high  hat — "  and  the  clerk  described  Kentucky. 

Murdoch  did  not  wait  for  the  end  of  the  description. 
When  he  heard  the  details  of  the  stranger's  hat,  he  jumped 
up  from  his  chair  with  an  alacrity  that  room  had  never 
seen  before.  For  an  instant  his  heart  throbbed  with  a 
genuine  and  delightful  joy.  He  would  be  glad,  indeed, 
to  see  Kentucky.  But  then  there  came  a  little  chill  and  a 
catching  of  his  breath.  Why  had  Kentucky  left  Lizette? 
Had  something  dreadful  happened  just  as  he  was  ready 
to  carry  out  his  plans?  The  thought  stopped  him  for  a 
second  at  the  door.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  long  cor 
ridor.  Kentucky  was  walking  slowly  down  it,  and  Mur 
doch  paused  for  an  instant  to  contemplate  the  old,  familiar 
back.  The  clothes  upon  it  were  the  ones  for  which  Mur 
doch  had  advanced  the  money;  but  they  were  shabby  now, 
and  the  hat  was  that  of  beams  and  girders.  Murdoch 
called  in  a  voice  that  startled  all  the  staid  and  respectable 
employees  of  that  banking  house. 

"Kentucky,"  he  cried,  "come  here!" 

Kentucky  turned  to  meet  him,  and  there  before  them  all 
the  president  of  the  bank  and  the  eccentric  looking 
stranger  from  the  Latin  Quarter  greeted  each  other  with 
French  effusiveness.  They  hugged  and  then  they  held 
each  other  off  at  arms'  length  and  looked  into  each  other's 
faces.  The  business  of  the  bank  stopped.  It  was  a  shock. 
It  came  very  near  to  scandal.  Nothing  like  it  had  ever 
happened  before  in  all  the  history  of  that  banking  house. 
But  Murdoch  did  not  care.  He  pulled  Kentucky  into  his 
room  and  shut  the  door.  He  forced  him  into  his  own 
chair  and  gave  orders  that  he  must  not  be  disturbed.  Such 
doings  were  revolutionary,  and  the  boy  backed  from  the 
room,  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  mute  wonder  on  the  face  of 
his  strangely  changed  employer. 

Again  the  old  friends  shook  hands  and  looked  each 
other  over. 

"You  haven't  changed,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Nor  you,"  Kentucky  said,  "except  that  you  are  better 
dressed," 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR.  127 

"You're  not,"  said  Murdoch,  smiling. 

And  then,  with  an  expression  of  eagerness  and  anxiety 
which  could  not  have  been  assumed  and  was  'balm  to  the 
faithful,  puzzled  soul  of  poor  Kentucky.,  the  banker  put 
his  hands  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  student,  and,  leaning 
toward  him,  said  quickly: 

"Lizette?" 

"Oh,  Murdoch!  I'm  so  glad!  I  am  glad!  It's  true,  then. 
You  do  love  her  yet.  You  do,  man,  you  do.  Tell  me  so." 

"I  do,  Kentucky;  of  course,  I  do,"  said  Murdoch.  His 
face  now  wore  the  puzzled  look.  "Why?  What  makes 
you  ask?  She  does  not  doubt  it,  does  she?  You  do  not 
doubt  it,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  we  had  both  begun  to  doubt — or  I  had,  anyway. 
You  didn't  come.  What  could  we  think?  And,  man  dear, 
she  was  dying  for  you.  I  mean  that.  She  was  dying  for 
you.  I  came  over  to  find  out.  To  see  if  I  could  find  out 
really  what  the  matter  is.  I  came  to  take  you  back  with 
me  to  that  little  girl  and  save  her  happiness.  You  have 
no  right  to  ruin  it." 

He  paused  and  looked  intently  at  the  banker.  "And 
Murdoch,  if  I  had  found  differently,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done  to  you.  And  if  you  don't  come  with  me, 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

Murdoch  was  filled  with  a  great  exhilaration.  The  love 
of  dramatic  effect  which  had  made  the  conceptions  of  his 
pictures  good  and  which  had  been  smothered  since  he  had 
returned  to  New  York  ran  riot  with  him.  He  held  the 
gravity  of  his  face  so  rigidly  that  Kentucky  would  have 
seen  the  falseness  of  it  had  he  not  been  too  wrought  up  to 
stop  to  think. 

"Why,  Kentucky,"  Murdoch  forced  himself  to  say,  as 
he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  outer  office,  "how  can  I  go? 
Look  at  all  this!" 

Kentucky,  whose  face  had  been  radiant,  when  he  found 
that  his  old  friend  seemed  still  faithful  to  the  past,  sat, 
after  this  speech,  as  if  frozen  in  the  chair.  Murdoch 
watched  him,  enjoying  for  a  second  what  he  had  meant  to 
be  a  joke.  But  as  he  was  about  to  speak  and  undo  the 
pleasantry,  Kentucky's  long,  ungainly  figure  rose  slowly 


128  LIZETTE. 

from  the  chair.  Its  every  joint  stretched  out.  The  old, 
familiar  stoop  was  gone.  The  face  which  topped  it  wore 
an  expression  which  Murdoch  had  never  seen  on  it  before. 
He  watched  the  change  with  fascination.  Kentucky 
slowly  reached  out  for  his  ancient  hat  and  placed  it  firmly 
on  his  head.  His  eyes  looked  over  Murdoch,  and  beyond 
him.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  they  saw  the  walls  of  the  dull 
room.  There  was  an  impressive  something — it  was  al 
most  majestic — in  Kentucky's  presence  now  which  kept 
Murdoch  from  speaking. 

Kentucky  broke  the  silence.  He  did  not  look  at  Mur 
doch.  His  eyes  stared  into  space. 

"Then  may  the  good  Lord  punish  you  as  you  deserve," 
he  said.  "Murder  is  nothing  to  it.  God!" 

The  agony  in  his  face  was  real.  The  staring  eyes 
changed  and  filled  with  tears.  More  than  the  old  stoop 
came  back  to  the  tall  frame  «nd  shortened  it.  He  turned 
to  Murdoch. 

"Murdoch,  man,  you  don't  mean  it.  You  can't  mean  it. 
Think  of  her,  Murdoch,  think  of  her!  Every  day  that  I've 
been  with  her  it  has  always  been  Tudgy!  Pudgy!  Pudgy!' 
Sometimes,  in  our  talks  down  there  in  the  South,  I  became 
angry  at  you  and  said  harsh  things.  And  then,  poor  thing, 
languishing  away  for  love  of  you — as  sweet  a  woman,  Mur 
doch,  as  God  lets  live — she  always  made  excuses  for  you, 
and  told  her  love  for  you  a  thousand  times  in  defending 
you  from  me.  In  defending  you  from  me,  the  best  friend 
that  you've  got,  John  Murdoch! 

"She  has  said  that  we  could  not  reasonably  expect  you 
to  come  back.  That  it  was  all  wrong  for  us  to  think  that 
you  ever  would  come  back.  Art  students  never  did 
come  back,  she  said.  She  has  even  tried,  John  Mur 
doch,  to  put  her  love  and  yours  upon  the  basis  in 
my  eyes  of  the  sordid  affairs  of  the  Quarter,  which  you 
know,  as  well  as  I  do,  are  as  different  from  it  as  the  black 
est  hole  in  hell  is  different  from  the  brightest  spot  in 
heaven.  But  she  has  tried  to  do  it,  Murdoch,  in  order 
that  I  should  not  blame  you.  That  beastly  trip!  It  was 
a  nightmare.  It  did  not  help  her  any.  That  was  not 
what  she  needed.  She  needed  you.  So  we  went  back  to 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  WHO  SOLD   COALS 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR.  129 

Paris,  where  she  could  sit  and  mope  and  dream  of  you 
among  familiar  things  and  places  that  had  been  common 
to  your  life  together  there — the  life  in  which  she  lives  in 
memory  to  dull  the  sorrow  of  a  painful  present.  And  so 
my  journey  is  in  vain!  Good  Lord!  I  cannot  face  her.  I 
don't  know  what  to  do/' 

Murdoch  spoke  at  last,  and  if  the  tears  came  to  Ken 
tucky's  big  old  eyes  as  he  stopped  speaking,  there  were 
just  as  many  in  John  Murdoch's  when  he  started. 

"Kentucky,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  ass.  I  tried  to  fool 
you.  I  am  going.  Before  I  had  any  notion  that  you  were 
not  in  Paris  I  had  everything  arranged  to  sail  at  noon  to 
day.  Now  we'll  sail  together.  I  am  going  to  her,  Ken 
tucky,  and  you  are  going  with  me.  We'll  go  to  her  to 
gether,  old  man,  and  then  we'll  all  come  back  here  to  a  new 
home,  where  we  three  will  be  as  happy  as  we  ever  were,  and 
happier.  Now  what  are  you  going  to  do  to  me,  or  call 
upon  the  Powers  to  do?" 

It  was  Kentucky  now  who  could  not  speak.  He  went 
over  to  Murdoch,  who  had  not  risen.  He  hugged  him  as 
a  bear  might  hug.  Murdoch  called  a  man  and  told  him  to 
buy  another  passage.  For  ten  minutes  he  talked  with  the 
cashier  and  told  him  that  he  would  look  at  nothing  else 
that  morning,  but  that  he  would  return  in  six  or  seven 
weeks.  Even  the  cashier  was  glad  that  at  last  Murdoch 
was  really  to  take  a  rest.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  it  seemed  to 
all  his  associates  in  the  bank,  that  the  mere  thought  of 
going  away  had  done  Murdoch  worlds  of  good,  for  his  step, 
which  had  been  heavy  lately,  was  light;  his  eyes,  which  had 
been  dull  and  tired  looking,  were  bright;  his  voice,  which 
had  been  sharp  and  peevish,  was  brisk  and  pleasant. 

There  were  papers  which  had  been  prepared  for  in 
spection  and  signature  before  his  departure.  These  Mur 
doch  disposed  of  rapidly.  His  carriage  was  waiting.  The 
luggage  was  piled  on.  Murdoch  bundled  Kentucky  into 
the  carriage,  and  when,  after  he  had  joined  him  there  and 
the  solemn  servant  f  'om  the  Madison  avenue  mansion  had 
closed  the  door  (trying  hard  not  to  show  surprise  at  the  ap 
pearance  of  his  master's  companion),  they  went  straight  to 
the  dock  and  left  the  luggage.  They  had  an  hour  before 


130  LIZETTE. 

the  steamer  sailed,  and  they  drove  to  the  cable  office  and 
sent  a  message  to  Lizette.     Both  signed  it.     It  read. 

"We  sail  at  noon  for  Paris  and  for  you.  Have  a  fire  in 
the  new  stove  and  some  ecrivisse.  Nos  coeurs  sont  plein  de 

toi.  "PUDGY. 

"KENTUCKY." 

The  last  sentence  of  the  message  meant,  "Our  hearts 
are  full  of  thee,"  and  it  was  couched  in  the  familiar  French 
which  one  uses  with  those  he  loves,  but  not  with  strangers. 

And,  indeed,  their  hearts  were  full  of  her.  Of  nothing 
else  they  talked  as  they  drove;  of  nothing  else  they 
thought  as  they  climbed  the  gang-plank  of  the  steamer. 
They  did  not  see  the  beautiful  panorama  of  New  York 
harbor  as  the  big  ship  ploughed  through  its  waters.  That 
night  they  sat  in  the  smoking-room  until  the  lights  went 
out.  They  did  not  see  the  poker-players.  Their  only  in 
terest  in  the  day's  runs  came  from  the  fact  that  every  revo 
lution  of  the  big  ship's  paddle  wheels  took  them  nearer 
to  that  other  shore  where  they  should  find  Lizette. 

During  the  long  days  on  the  ship,  sometimes  when  they 
were  sitting  in  the  smoking-room,  sometimes  when  they 
were  pacing  the  deck  together — and  a  strangely  assorted 
pair  they  looked — Kentucky  told  to  Murdoch's  ever-eager 
ears  tales  of  Lizette's  devotion,  of  her  sweetness,  of  her  un 
selfishness. 

"One  day  she  said  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  it  seemed  to 
her  unfair  that  so  many  good  things  should  fall  to  her  and 
so  few  to  other  girls.  That  was  when,  dear  man,  we 
looked  for  you  almost  day  by  day,  and  before  your  long  de 
lays  had  taken  all  the  brightness  out  of  her,  as  it  did  later." 

Kentucky  paused  here.  Murdoch  could  not  resent  the 
rebuke  that  was  half-hidden  in  the  voice  of  his  companion. 

"She  was  very  happy,"  the  student  continued,  after  a 
moment's  pause.  "The  very  next  day  you  sent  to  me  that 
damned  'unlimited  credit.'  I  never  told  her  about  that.  I 
feared  that  its  very  generosity  would  be  mistaken  and 
make  her  think  that  she  would  have  long,  indeed,  to  wait 
for  you.  I  merely  told  her  that  you  had  sent  a  sum  of 
money  to  me,  saying  that  you  would  be  over  soon  yourself, 
but  begging  me,  in  the  meantime,  to  be  her  banker  and  see 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR.  131 

to  it  that  she  had  means  to  get  whatever  things  she  needed. 
She  spent  mighty  little  of  it,  Murdoch.  Your  money  never 
made  you  one  whit  dearer  to  Lizette.  The  only  new  clothes 
even  that  I  could  make  her  buy  were  the  merest,  plainest 
necessaries.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  unwilling  even  to 
throw  aside  the  gowns  in  which  you  had  seen  and  loved 
her.  And  that  red  wrapper!  Do  you  remember  that? 
She  would  not  get  a  new  one.  Tudgy  liked  me  in  this/ 
she  said  to  me  when  I  urged  her  to  go  and  buy  another. 
She  had  darned  and  sewed  on  it  until  it  was  almost  all 
mends  and  patches.  But  you  had  said  you  liked  it,  and 
that  settled  it." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Murdoch,  "that  she  saved  it.  We  shall 
keep  it  always." 

"It  was  because  of  her  rigid  economies  that  I  was  sur 
prised  one  day,  when  she  came  and  asked  me  if  I  thought 
you  could  afford  to  let  her  have  a  hundred  francs,"  went 
on  Kentucky.  "If  I  thought  it  would  not  be  wrong,  she 
said,  she  hoped  that  I  could  give  it  to  her.  Again  she  said 
that  it  seemed  unfair  that  she  should  have  so  much  while 
others  had  so  little.  She  wanted  just  a  hundred  francs  to 
give  away.  She  got  it — got  it  quick. 

"You  know  how  the  girls  over  there  love  their  fancy 
petticoats?  Those  queer  things,  cut  out  on  the  hias  and 
ruffled,  and  all  that?  Well,  they  can't  always  get  them. 
They  don't  always  have  the  money.  Lizette  used  her  hun 
dred  francs  in  buying  fancy  petticoats  for  some  girls  who 
couldn't  get  them  for  themselves.  You  know  how  the 
French  woman  loves  to  hold  her  outside  skirt  up  in  order 
to  show  the  beauty  of  the  one  beneath  it?  Well,  there  were 
six  or  seven  happy  girls  in  the  Quarter  after  she  had  spent 
her  hundred  francs — all  holding  up  their  outside  skirts. 
She  was  one  of  the  happy  girls,  although  she  had  no  new 
petticoat  to  show.  The  girls  that  did  have  came  to  the 
studio  and  showed  them  to  her,  and  she  was  happy!  It 
seems  to  me  that  she  is  always  happiest  when  she  is  work 
ing  for  another's  pleasure." 

Kentucky  loved  her  as  a  father  might. 

One  night,  seated  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  deck — it  was 
when  only  two  days  remained  to  pass  before  they  reached 


131  LIZETTE. 

the  English  shore — he  told  to  Murdoch  the  story  of  his 
life's  tragedy,  and  said  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  Heaven  had 
sent  Lizette  to  him  to  take  the  place  of  the  baby  daughter, 
who,  with  the  mother  he  had  loved  so  well,  lay  buried  in 
a  cholera  grave  in  a  churchyard  away  in  the  south  of 
France. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  it  would  be  easier  if 
they  had  not  died  so  dreadfully;  if  they  had  perished  of 
something  other  than  the  plague.  It  would  not  help  them 
any,  Murdoch,  if  I  could  go  and  dream  of  them  above  their 
graves,  somewhere  in  a  quiet  churchyard,  where  shadows 
lay  serene  and  flowers  bloomed  above  them;  but  it  would 
help  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  could  have  nursed  her 
in  her  illness  and  held  her  hand  as  she  passed  into  the 
great  dark,  my  sorrow  would  be  lighter.  They  told  me 
that  they  placed  the  p'tite  cherie  clasped  tight  within  her 
arms  as  if  together  they  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  only  waited 
for  the  morning  to  awaken.  I  am  glad  that  they  did  that. 
But,  Murdoch!  If  only  it  had  been  my  solemn  privilege 
to  fix  them  thus — the  poor,  dead  mother  and  our  poor, 
dead  child  with  their  arms  about  each  other — it  would  be 
easier  for  me  now.  If  I  could  only  see  them  in  my  mem 
ory  as  they  were  when  they  were  laid  to  rest!  If  I  could 
have  the  selfish  satisfaction  of  going  to  a  separate  grave 
and  knowing  that  within  its  walls  they  lay  alone!  If  I 
could  put  over  them  some  little  monument  on  which  the 
story  of  my  love  was  cut  in  lasting  stone!  But  there  they 
lie — my  loves,  my  life,  my  hopes,  ambitions,  all — buried  in 
that  common  grave  where  dozens,  unknown,  unreckoned 
and  unloved,  lie  with  them.  It  made  it  doubly  hard  for 
me,  old  man,  to  go  back  and  find  them  buried  in  that  com 
mon  grave.  The  very  day  they  died,  they  told  me  when  I 
reached  the  place,  her  father — a  hard,  incorrigible,  unfor 
giving  man,  he  was — arrived  there  with  a  woman,  who  said 
she  was  his  sister.  It  was  a  lie.  He  had  no  sister.  I  know 
what  he  intended.  Learning  that  I  had  left  them  there 
alone,  he  planned  to  go  and  steal  them  from  me.  But 
Death  took  them  first." 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Kentucky  told  his  tale  of 
tragedy  to  Murdoch.  They  had  left  the  smoking-room, 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR.  133 

and  were  sitting  on  the  open  deck  in  solitude.  The  sky 
was  dark  and  lowering,  with  almost  all  its  stars  obscured, 
but  a  lingering  opalescent  light  glowed  dimly  beyond  the 
drooping  clouds.  The  ship  was  rolling  gently.  Kentucky 
arose,  and  his  tall,  ungainly  figure,  swaying  to  the  motion 
of  the  ship,  was  silhouetted  black  against  the  distant 
radiance. 

"Never  may  you  suffer,  Murdoch,  as  I  have  suffered!" 
he  said,  slowly.  "Never,  when  it  is  too  late,  may  your  busy 
brain  find  bitter  food  for  thought  in  tardy  recognition  of 
neglected  opportunities  for  kindness  and  for  loving  ser 
vice!  Never  may  it  be  your  reverie,  late  at  night,  that,  if 
your  chance  had  only  been  extended  by  a  kindly  God,  you 
would  have  done  this  for  her,  or  that!  Never  may  it  be 
your  horrid  fortune  to  reach  yearning  arms  out  into  the 
darkness  and  know  that  she  whose  place  was  in  them  has 
forever  gone,  and  that  those  arms  have  failed  in  their  pro 
tection  in  the  very  hour  of  need!  Never  may  it  be  your 
terror,  Murdoch,  to  see  life  stretch  before  you  blank  and 
empty  as  mine  has  stretched  in  front  of  me!  Never  may 
existence  seem  so  vain  to  you  that  all  incentive  for  work 
and  effort  shall  have  vanished  and  only  the  dogged  instinct 
of  retaining  life — dull,  joyless,  dreary — remain  to  make 
you  live!  All  these  sensations  have  been  mine,  John  Mur 
doch,  and  may  they  never  come  to  you!" 

Kentucky  sat  down  on  the  bench  at  Murdoch's  side.  He 
put  his  hand  upon  the  banker's  knee,  and  said: 

"Now  you  know  my  story.  Now  you  know  why  I've 
seemed  to  be  interested  in  your  doings  and  have  bothered 
you  with  my  anxieties  about  your  life  and  hers.  Murdoch, 
I  love  you  both.  Kemernber  that.  If  I  ever  seem  to  med 
dle,  remember  that.  If  I  seem  to  take  upon  my  shoulders 
burdens  which  are  rightly  yours,  and  annoy  you  with  offi- 
ciousness,  remember  that.  Eemember,  Murdoch,  that  old 
Kentucky,  having  seen  his  own  life  go  to  wreck  and  ruin, 
is  only  trying  to  burn  signals  and  throw  out  lines  to  you, 
when  he  sees  your  own  and  hers  approaching  near  the 
rocks.  What  does  this  banking  business  in  New  York, 
for  which  you  have  neglected  her — you  have,  old  man, 
you  have  neglected  her — amount  to?  Nothing!  It  was 


134  LIZETTE. 

your  father's  wish  that  you  should  take  it  up,  and  your 
sense  of  duty  to  the  dead  has  played  large  part  in  your 
devotion  to  it.  Yes.  Admirable.  But  he  is  dead.  And 
she  is  living.  You  can't  help  or  please  him,  now.  And 
she  is  living — living  there  alone  and  yearning  for  you. 
Forgive  me,  Murdoch;  but  remember  what  I  say." 

"I  shall.  You  are  the  best  and  truest  friend  I  have, 
except  the  little  one,"  said  Murdoch. 

"I  think  I  am.    At  least  I  try  to  be." 

Then,  while  the  steamship's  busy  paddles  were  pounding 
through  the  waves  and  forcing  her  great  bulk  onward  to 
ward  the  other  shore  of  that  great  ocean,  where  Lizette 
waited,  loving  them  and  yearning  for  their  coming,  they 
went  below  to  sleep.  Murdoch,  to  see  her  as  the  earnest, 
loving  soul  whom  he  should  have  ever  with  him  in  the 
future;  Kentucky,  to  idly  fancy  in  fleeting  visions,  sleep 
born,  that  that  little  one,  long  dead  and  lying  in  her  silent 
mother's  arms  down  in  that  Southern  churchyard,  was  liv 
ing  still.  And  in  his  dream  she  came  to  him,  and,  reach 
ing  out  her  arms,  she  called  him  father.  And  when  he 
looked  to  see  the  vision  of  his  daughter,  he  smiled  with 
happiness  and  saw — Lizette. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
LIZETTE'S  PBATEE. 

John  Murdoch's  letter  reached  Lizette  the  very  day  they 
sailed.  It  always  made  her  happy  to  get  letters  from  her 
loved  one,  even  in  these  days  of  deep  despondency  and 
loneliness.  Sometimes  she  sat  for  hours,  holding  a  letter 
from  him  unopened  in  her  hand,  hoping  against  hope  that 
it  would  tell  her  he  was  coming,  longing  to  read  his  words 
of  love,  but  fearing  to,  because  so  often  there  were  writ 
ten  with  them  other  words  which  told  of  new  delays.  It 
was  evening  when  the  postman  brought  it.  She  forgot 
her  dinner,  but  sat,  grave  and  silent  with  it  in  her  hand, 
in  one  of  the  windows  looking  out  upon  the  Gardens  of 
the  Luxembourg.  It  was  much  thinner  than  his  letters 
generally  were.  Some  of  them,  written  on  the  heavy  paper 
of  the  bank,  .had  been  so  thick  that  they  felt  stiff  and  heavy 
in  her  hand,  as  if  the  envelope  were  full  of  pasteboard. 
But  this  one  bent  so  readily  that,  in  the  sweet  uncertainty 
of  wondering  what  it  told,  she  almost  crumpled  it.  Her 
hand  closed  tightly  on  it,  and  the  gum  which  held  the  flap 
gave  way.  So  when  she  looked  down  at  it  lying  in  her 
open  palm  an  instant  later,  it  had  opened  of  itself! 

Before  she  read  she  saw  that  there  were  only  two  sheets 
of  letter-paper.  Sometimes  he  wrote  a  dozen.  She  won 
dered  if  he  was  now  so  very  busy  that  he  would  no  longer 
find  the  time  to  write  long  letters!  Then  she  read. 

"I  am  coming  over  to  you,"  said  the  letter,  "very  soon. 
Just  when,  I  cannot  tell.  It  will  be  as  soon  as  I  can  in 
honor  leave  my  work  here.  I  cannot  stay  long  in  Paris." 

She  dropped  the  letter  to  her  lap  and  sighed.  So  it  was 
only  to  be  a  little,  little  visit,  after  all — this  visit  she  had 
waited  for  so  long! 


136  LIZETTE. 

"I  cannot  stay  long  in  Paris/'  she  read  again,  "for  my 
work  henceforth  is  here/' 

The  shock  of  this  most  startling  statement  would  have 
made  her  stop  again,  if,  as  the  tears  quickly  gathered  in 
her  eyes,  she  had  not  seen  a  few  words,  indistinctly,  com 
ing  after  it.  She  read  them  eagerly. 

"But  you  must  be  here  with  me.  My  heart  cries  out  for 
you  and  needs  you.  You  must  come  with  me  and  we  must 
not  separate  again." 

She  stopped  now,  but  only  to  wipe  away  the  tears  which 
came  without  her  bidding  and  had  no  sorrow  in  them.  She 
read  those  words  again: 

"You  must  come  with  me,  and  we  must  not  separate 
again.  With  no  base  motive  and  without  intent  of  wrong 
ing  you,  my  dear  one,  I  have  done  you  great  injustice/' 

Her  eyes  flew  over  the  paper  now  as  fast  as  her  imper 
fect  knowledge  of  the  English  words  would  let  them. 

"I  realized  this  long  ago.  Just  previous  to  the  news  which  told 
me  of  my  father's  illness,  I  realized  it,  and  intended  then  to  right 
the  wrong  that  I  had  unthinkingly  and  not  stopping  to  consider, 
put  on  you.  You  have  been  ever  sweet  and  true  to  me.  I  know 
that  as  surely  as  I  know  when  the  sun  shines.  In  a  blind  and 
stumbling  way  I  have  tried  to  merit  your  great  love  and  kindness, 
but  in  the  very  greatest  thing  of  all  I  failed.  I  shall  not  fail  again. 
I  love  you,  precious  one,  my  wee  Lizette — I  love  you — and  1  ask 
you,  beg  of  you  as  humbly  as  suitor  ever  begged,  to  add  to  the 
great  happiness  you  have  already  given  to  my  life  by  marrying  me. 
My  life  seems  preordained  to  lie  here,  not  there  in  Paris,  as  we 
had  hoped  and  planned  it  would.  My  stay  at  the  old  studio  must 
be  very  short,  indeed,  this  time.  I  must  hurry  back  to  go  on  with 
the  work  which  will  lie  waiting  for  me  here.  But  when  I  hurr/ 
back,  come  with  me  as  my  wife.  I  love  you  and  I  honor  you.  Give 
me  the  right  to  cherish  you — to  ever  shelter  and  protect  you. 
Marry  me,  my  sweet,  and  we  will  not  part  again. 

"My  heart  goes  out  to  you. 

"JOHN  MURDOCH." 

She  read  this  letter  many  times.  Her  heart  beat  fast. 
The  tears  ran  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  It  was  too  great  a 
happiness  that  the  written  words  had  brought  to  her!  She 
held  the  letter  to  her  heart  and  tried  to  realize  it  all.  She 
could  not.  She  rose  and  walked  about  the  studio,  softly 
touching  little  things  with  loving  fingers.  She  walked 
from  room  to  room.  Underneath  his  skylight  stood  his 


LIZETTE'S  PRAYER.  137 

easel.  She  paused  before  it,  and  let  her  finger  tips  move 
softly  up  and  down  upon  its  wood,  just  touching  it.  It 
was  his  easel!  In  a  closet  opening  from  the  studio  hung 
his  great  rain  coat — the  very  one  he  had  worn  that  morn 
ing  when  the  news  came  from  America  which  carried  him 
away  from  her.  She  softly  buried  her  small  face  in  it  and 
snuggled  up  against  it  as  a  kitten  snuggles  in  a  rug. 

Then  there  came  the  great  necessity  for  telling  some 
one.  Of  a  certainty  she  must  share  her  happiness  with 
some  one.  It  was  hard  to  leave  the  studio,  but  it  must  be 
done.  She  knew  of  no  one  she  could  tell  except  the  old 
woman  who  sold  coals.  She  was  a  very  good  old  woman 
and,  while  she  would  not  understand,  she  must  be  told. 
Lizette  wondered  if  in  all  her  life  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  had  ever  ridden  in  a  cab.  That  day  she  should.  Of 
a  verity  she  should. 

She  hurried  to  the  shop  and  communicated  eagerly  her 
plan  that  they  should  drive.  The  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  could  not  understand  such  schemes.  It  was  not  clos 
ing  time. 

That  did  not  matter,  said  Lizette.  They  would  drive, 
because  great  happiness  had  come  to  her  that  day,  and 
they  would  drive. 

Wonderfully  mystified  was  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals,  but  such  a  chance  must  not  be  lost. 

Standing  in  the  little  shop  was  the  young  man  who  had 
lodged  there  so  many  years.  It  was  he  who  once  had 
studied  art,  but  had  the  ambition  to  paint  pictures  washed 
out  of  him  with  Seine  water  by  John  Murdoch.  Lizette 
did  not  know  about  that  matter.  She  partly  knew  the 
story  of  the  affair,  but  Murdoch  had  never  told  her  that 
the  man  whom  he  had  ducked  and  who  had  cut  him  in  the 
hip  that  afternoon  was  the  lodger  of  the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals.  It  proved  to  be  a  pity  that  he  had  failed  to  tell 
her,  but  Murdoch  was  not  a  man  to  boast.  Lizette  knew 
the  man  by  sight  and  always  bowed  to  him  when  she  saw 
him  in  the  coal  shop.  She  often  saw  him  there.  It  was 
strange,  indeed,  that  he  should  be  so  often  there,  but  there 
he  often  was.  He  seemed  to  be  good-natured  this  time.  It 
may  be  that  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  had  been  more 


138  LIZETTE. 

willing  to  furnish  him  with  money  than  she  had  been  on 
that  other  past  occasion.  At  any  rate,  he  urged  her  to  ac 
cept  the  invitation,  and  laughed.  He  told  her  that  the  air 
would  do  her  good,  and  went  himself  to  get  a  neighbor  to 
come  and  watch  the  shop. 

What  a  pleasant  drive  that  was!  Lizette  herself  gave 
orders  to  the  cocker  that  no  beggar  should  be  passed  with 
out  a  charitable  pause,  and  when  they  came  to  Notre 
Dame,  she  told  the  man  to  stop  and  wait  for  them  while 
they  went  in  to  pray.  He  was  suspicious.  There  are  many 
entrances  to  Notre  Dame  and  one  need  not  go  away  the 
way  one  enters.  It  would  be  easy  to  leave  him  standing 
there  all  night,  while  they  went  out  some  other  way. 
Lizette  gave  him  his  fare  and  told  him  he  could  wait  or 
go  away  as  best  he  pleased.  They  should  return  to  him  or 
to  some  other  cocker  before  very  long  by  that  same  door 
by  which  they  entered. 

Early  in  the  day  she  had  planned  to  buy  some  little 
luxuries.  The  money  which  she  had  set  aside  for  this  she 
dropped  into  the  poor-box  as  she  entered.  The  little  old 
woman  who  sold  coals  was  puzzled  beyond  expression  by  it 
all.  She  was  glad  to  have  the  drive,  but  was  it  to  end  at 
Notre  Dame,  not  ten  minutes'  walk  from  where  she  sold 
her  coals?  What  could  this  very  gay  young  woman  have 
in  that  small  head  of  hers,  she  wondered.  Lizette  sought 
out  a  place  where  the  shadow  of  a  pillar  fell,  and  dropped 
slowly  to  her  knees. 

"Kneel  you,  also,"  she  whispered  to  the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals.  "Kneel  you  here  by  me,  and  ask  the  Holy  Vir 
gin  to  shelter  him  and  keep  him  for  me,  to  bring  him  safe 
and  joyous  to  me,  to  make  his  pathways  ever  smooth  and 
bright  with  happiness,  to  give  me  strength  to  care  for 
him  and  cherish  him  and  love  him  ever  as  he  will  ever 
merit  love;  beg  Her,  the  Blessed  One,  to  help  me  to  de 
serve  the  great  joy  which  this  day  has  come  to  me  and 
make  me  worthy  of  it;  beg  Her  to  show  me  how  to  ever 
think  of  him  and  not  think  of  myself;  beg  Her  that  sor 
rows  if  they  fall  may  fall  on  me  and  not  on  him;  beg  Her 
to  cast  me  out  and  hate  me  if  I  ever  by  so  little  wrong  or 
hurt  him;  beg  Her  that  I  may  see  the  way  to  help  him  ever 


LIZETTE'S  PRAYER.  139 

and  to  never  hinder  him;  beg  Her  now  to  let  me  die,  while 
joy  so  great  and  sweet  is  in  me,  if  by  my  living  wrong  or 
harm  shall  come  to  him  in  that  great  land  across  the  sea, 
where  he  must  work  and  live." 

The  old  woman  was  impressed,  and  in  her  mind  stopped 
all  complaining  over  the  brevity  of  the  drive.  She  was  so 
earnest,  this  little  one  who  kneeled  by  her  and  begged  the 
prayers  of  her!  Surely,  something  wondrous  must  have 
happened  to  make  her  feel  so  strongly.  She  did  not  bow 
her  head,  but,  instead,  looked  in  wonder  at  the  little  one. 
Lizette  softly  put  her  hands  across  the  watching  eyes. 

"Pray,  good  one,  pray!"  she  said.  "Afterwards  I  shall 
tell  you  why,  but  now  pray  for  my  Pudgy." 

It  was  most  astonishing,  and  it  is  not  possible  that  the 
wonder  of  it  left  much  thought  for  prayer  in  the  busy 
head  of  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals.  But  she  bowed  her 
head  obediently,  though  not  understanding  in  the  least 
what  it  was  all  about. 

And  how  she  prayed — Lizette!  In  the  solemn  quiet  of 
the  holy  place  she  poured  her  heart  out  to  the  Virgin — the 
only  one  she  knew  to  pray  to.  In  her  mind,  untutored 
and  seeing  such  things  very,  very  dimty,  God  Himself  was 
far  too  terrible  a  Being  for  her  to  ask  a  favor  of.  The 
twisted  and  haphazard  theology  which  she  had  picked  up, 
crumb  by  crumb,  because  she  hungered  for  it,  made  God 
the  punisher,  and  Christ's  mother,  Mary,  the  beauteous 
and  gentle  Influence  which  begged  of  Him  for  mercy  for 
poor  mortals. 

For  a  long  time  she  kneeled  there,  bowed  in  silent  sup 
plication.  It  almost  hurt  her  to  breathe  forth  the  in 
tensity  of  her  petition  for  the  welfare  of  her  loved  one. 
The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  ran,  unheeded,  down  her 
cheeks.  She  knew  not  what  she  did — this  little  one.  She 
knew  most  indefinitely  whom  it  was  she  prayed  to,  and 
there  were  in  her  supplication  none  of  the  conventional 
ities  of  made-to-order  prayers.  But  hers  was  real — her 
pleading.  There  was  in  it  such  simple  faith  as  little  chil 
dren  feel.  There  was  in  it  the  true  devotion  of  complete 
self-abnegation.  There  was  in  it,  in  its  ignorance,  a  qual 
ity  that  Heaven  cannot  always  find  in  prayers  sent  up  to 


140  LIZETTE. 

it.  Surely,  it  was  but  right  that  this  day  she  should  thank 
the  Blessed  Virgin!  How  many  joys  were  hers!  Her  hap 
piness  was  boundless,  scarce  to  be  believed!  How  fer 
vently  she  gave  her  thanks  that  hour  in  Notre  Dame! 

Can  any  theologian,  deeply  versed  in  the  Bible  and  the 
science  of  theology,  say  that  that  prayer  of  hers  was  not 
as  likely  to  be  heard  in  Heaven  as  any  smoothly-voiced  pe 
tition  sent  up  from  any  pulpit  by  any  ordained  priest? 
Can  it  be  possible  that  Sunday  prayers  by  cultured  women, 
who  tell  their  beads  in  high-priced  pews  with  words  con 
ventionally  set  for  them  by  others,  are  more  likely  to  be 
heard  of  God  than  was  this  stammering,  half-formed  peti 
tion,  breathed  in  sincerity  and  reverence  to  Christ's 
mother,  by  this  little  untaught,  loving  girl  that  day  in 
Notre  Dame?  Not  for  herself  did  she  ask  the  intervention 
of  the  Virgin,  but  for  her  Pudgy.  It  was  all  for  him! 

When  she  arose  at  last  a  light  was  in  her  eyes — a  light 
of  brilliance,  such  as  is  not  often  given  to  woman's  eyes  to 
show,  and  she  was  very  happy. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  JOY  OF  PEEPAKATION. 

It  was  a  great  and  wondrous  period  for  Lizette.  Her 
half  hour  in  Notre  Dame  with  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  had  been  a  necessity  demanded  by  emotion.  Some 
one  had  to  share  the  first  uncontrollable  exuberance  of  the 
joy  that  filled  her  after  reading  Pudgy's  letter.  She  went 
back  to  the  studio  and  was  glad  to  be  alone  again.  Her 
happiness  in  those  dear  old  rooms  seemed  sacred  happiness 
to  her,  such  as  must  not  be  witnessed  by  any  except  the  two 
men  who  were  absent  in  America.  She  had  not  heard  from 
dear  Kentucky  since  he  had  left  for  New  York  City  to  see 
Murdoch,  and  she  wondered  if  Murdoch  had  told  him 
about  the  letter.  She  knew  that  he  would  be  rejoiced 
by  it. 

What  a  dear  old  place  the  studio  looked,  with  the  day 
light  softened  by  the  heavy  curtains,  joining  with  the  red 
glare  from  the  fire  in  the  new  stove.  It  was  a  warm  day, 
but  the  fire  was  'burning  brightly.  Pudgy  had  written  to 
her  that  she  must  keep  it  burning,  and  she  would  have 
tolerated  tortures  from  the  heat  before  she  would  have  let 
it  die.  Sometimes  she  even  suffered  from  it,  and  had  to 
open  every  window  so  that  the  cool  air  from  outside  might 
blow  in  to  counteract  its  blazing  ardor,  but  that  she  did  not 
mind,  except  for  the  great  waste  of  coals,  for  when  the 
windows  were  opened  wide  there  were  the  pleasant  muffled 
noises  of  the  Boulevard  from  the  front,  and  from  the  side 
those  soft,  uprising  shouts  of  the  children  at  their  play  in 
the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  She  listened  happily  to 
them  this  morning  and  had  gone  to  the  open  window  to 
look  out  when  the  concierge  knocked  on  the  door.  She 
did  not  hear  her,  so  the  concierge  went  in  and  handed  a 


142  LIZETTE. 

small  envelope  to  her.  It  was  a  telegram,  and  she  tore  it 
open  eagerly.  She  feared  for  a  moment  that  it  might  tell 
of  new  delays,  but  when  she  read  she  found  she  had  new 
cause  for  happiness.  It  was  that  part  of  the  message  that 
was  written  in  familiar  French  that  pleased  her  most,  of 
course,  although  the  other  words  made  definite  the  fact 
that  they  would  sail  that  very  day.  "Nos  coeurs  sont  plein 
de  toi!"  "Our  hearts  are  full  of  thee!"  And  they  had 
sent  these  words  of  love  by  ocean  telegraph  and  linked 
them  with  those  other  words  which  told  her  of  their  start 
for  Paris  and  for  her.  She  was  most  happy.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  the  message  came  in  answer  to  the  prayer  that 
she  had  said  in  Notre  Dame. 

When  she  had  been  a  small  girl,  working  in  the  artificial 
flower  shops,  she  had  used  few  words  and  many  gestures. 
She  had  had  strange  ways  of  expressing  her  emotions,  and 
some  of  them  had  filled  the  scornful  souls  of  other  girls 
with  merriment.  Especially  had  they  shouted  in  derision 
when,  one  day,  she  showed  her  joy  about  some  matter  really 
trifling,  but  to  her  important,  by  gravely  hopping  on  one 
foot  about  the  room.  She  had  not  known  why  this  had 
given  satisfaction  to  her,  but  it  had  and  so  she  hopped. 
And  this  day,  after  she  had  read  this  message,  almost  un 
consciously  she  gathered  one  foot  in  her  down-stretched 
hand  and  hopped  upon  the  other  twice  around  the  studio. 
When  she  realized  what  she  was  doing,  she  sat  down  sud 
denly  upon  the  floor,  the  red  wrapper  spreading  out  around 
her  as  she  sunk,  and  blushed  and  laughed,  embarrassed,  as 
if  someone  had  seen  her  in  her  childishness.  But  then 
she  rose  and  hopped  again,  defiantly,  and  would  have 
hopped  in  spite  of  all,  if  the  whole  world  looked  on  and 
grinned.  This  exhibition  of  her  happiness  attended  to, 
she  began  to  work. 

Everything  must  be  ready  when  they  came.  Not  any 
where  must  there  be  the  smallest  speck  of  dust.  In  a 
great  glow  of  preparation  she  moved  about  to  see  what 
might  be  done.  It  was  a  disappointment  to  her  that  there 
was  so  little  dust.  She  wished  for  mountains  of  it — mount 
ains  which  she  might  clear  away,  so  satisfying  would  the 
hard  work  have  been.  But  if  there  were  no  mountains, 


THE  JOY  OF  PREPARATION.  143 

there  were  surely  specks,  which  must  be  found  and  cast 
severely  out.  And  this  was  done.  Each  of  the  rugs  upon 
the  floor  was  beaten  by  the  concierge  under  Lizette's  own 
supervision.  She  might  not  beat  the  rugs  herself,  which 
was  a  sorrow  to  her,  for  John  Murdoch  had  found  her  do 
ing  so  one  day  and  asked  her  not  to.  But  surely  she  might 
look  on  without  offense  to  him  and  see  that  the  beating 
was  well  done,  and  that  she  did.  And  all  the  floors  were 
scrubbed.  Not  that  they  were  soiled;  but  of  a  certainty 
they  must  be  scrubbed.  For  was  not  Pudgy  coming  home 
to  them?  Surely  he  must  not  find  untidiness  to  greet 
him.  And  the  hangings  on  the  walls.  Each  had  been 
purchased  after  much  investigation  and  discussion  by 
Pudgy  and  herself.  Kentucky  also  had  been  with  them 
when  many  of  the  purchases  were  made.  Each  one  was 
taken  down  with  consideration  for  the  exact  way  in  which 
it  had  hung  upon  the  wall  so  that  it  might  be  put  back 
without  change,  and  shaken  out  and  brushed  and  dusted, 
until  not  one  mote  could  have  been  left  lodging  in  it. 

In  the  studio  itself,  particularly,  all  was  made  ready. 
The  skylight  was  not  cleaned,  for  Murdoch  had  once  said 
that  its  light  was  better  when  it  came  softened  by  the  dust 
which  rose  up  from  the  street  and  lodged  on  it.  There 
was  more  dust  now  than  then  there  had  been,  but  Lizette 
feared  that  to  take  off  just  the  right  amount  of  it  and  still 
leave  exactly  what  he  wanted  would  be  too  delicate  a  task. 

Every  one  of  his  brushes  was  cleaned  and  made  ready 
for  him  in  little  pots  of  water  to  keep  them  soft.  For 
surely  he  would  paint,  at  least,  some  little  sketch  in  the 
old  studio  before  he  went  back  to  that  strange  place,  New 
York.  He  would  paint,  at  least,  a  little  sketch  for  Auld 
Lang  Syne.  And  what  size  would  he  be  likely  to  wish  to 
make  that  sketch?  There  must  'be  canvas  read}'  ior  him. 
He  must  have  no  bother  when  he  came.  So  she  gathered 
up  some  stretchers  and  took  them  to  the  shop  to  have  them 
covered.  It  was  with  much  delight  she  told  the  dealer 
that  M'sieu  Murdoch  was  coming  home  and  would  wish  to 
have  canvas  ready  for  his  work.  It  was  with  great  pride 
that  she  listened  to  the  dealer  when  he  said  that  Murdoch 
was  not  only  a  fine  painter  to  have  taken  the  Prix  d'Hon- 


144  LIZETTE. 

neur  (which  was  painted  on  a  canvas  stretched  in  that 
very  shop),  but  that  of  a  truth  he  was  also  a  fine  man  in 
that  he  always  paid  his  bills. 

"Madame,"  the  canvas  seller  said,  "it  is  strange  about 
these  painters,  although  it  is  not  I,  who  make  my  living 
from  them  who  should  speak  of  it.  I  have  noticed  that  in 
general  the  very  ones  who  can  most  beautifully  paint  can 
also  the  most  beautifully  lie.  The  students  who  come 
here  and  are  stupid,  so  that  they  cannot  paint  at  all,  are 
those  who  always  pay.  When  I  hear  that  a  man  is  worth 
less  at  the  schools  I  know  at  once  that,  as  a  customer,  he  is 
safe.  When  I  hear  that  a  man  does  good  work  at  the 
schools  I  begin  to  wonder  about  money.  It  is  very 
strange.  If  one  can  paint,  one  will  not  pay.  If  one  will 
pay,  one  cannot  paint.  M'sieu  Murdoch  is  the  exception 
needed  to  the  rule  to  prove  it. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "if  I  could  have  my  way,  I  would 
sell  no  canvas  to  the  stupid  ones.  No.  I  would  have  for 
customers  only  those  who  can  do  credit  to  the  canvases  I 
stretch,  even  if  they  never  paid.  Think!  What  joy  for 
me  to  go  to  the  Salon  and  stand  before  the  year's  master 
piece  and  reflect  that  it  was  I — I — who  stretched  the  can 
vas  on  which  that  masterpiece  is  painted.  Ah!  But  that  is 
reward  for  work.  It  is  as  if  I  had  helped  to  paint  the 
picture.  Still,  one  must  live. 

"And  so  M'sieu  Murdoch  is  coming  back  to  Paris,  is  he? 
I  am  glad  of  that.  Be  good  enough  to  tell  him,  if  you 
please,  that  I  shall  be  enraptured  if  he  will  step  in  to  see 
me.  I  have  a  new  sizing  that  I  really  like.  I  should  bo 
proud  to  have  him  try  it.  Do  you  remember  a  student 
named  Kaintucky?  Well,  he  made  up  for  me  the  recipe, 
one  day,  when  he  could  not  pay  a  little  bill.  It  is  the  fine 
sizing,  I  assure  you." 

Here  was  a  new  delight  for  Lizette's  loving  heart. 
Praise  for  Kentucky,  too. 

"M'sieu  Kaintucky  he  comes,  too,  with  M'sieu  Mur 
doch,"  she  said,  delightedly.  Then  there  came  to  her  a  dig 
nity,  for  had  not  this  canvas  seller  intimated  that  there  had 
been  times  when  Kentucky  could  not  pay  his  bills?  He 
must  be  crushed.  So  Lizette  said: 


THE  JOY  OF  PREPARATION.  145 

"But  that  is  droll.  Of  a  certainty  it  is  too  bad  that 
M'sieu  Kaintucky  should  so  far  forget  as  to  pay  for  canvas 
with  his  recipe  for  sizing.  I  am  sure  that  now,  when  he 
comes  back,  if  you  will  but  present  to  him  the  bill  for 
canvas  and  give  him  back  the  recipe  he  will  most  gladly 
pay  to  you  the  money,  two  times  over." 

Her  face  showed  scorn  and  doubt  of  dealers. 

This  was  an  attack  from  a  quarter  which  the  dealer  had 
not  counted  on.  He  hastened  to  correct  his  error. 

"Pardon,  madame.  I  did  not  know  that  M'sieu  Kain 
tucky  was  the  particular  friend  of  you.  I  have  no  wish  to 
say  that  M'sieu  Kaintucky  could  not  pay  his  bill. 
I  merely  had  the  wish  to  say  that,  as  the  favor 
to  me,  he  permitted  me  to  poorly  pay  him  for 
the  use  of  his  sizing  recipe  by  stretching  a  few 
small  canvas  for  him.  They  were  nothing,  Madame — 
nothing.  He  was  doing  me  the  favor,  I  assure  you." 

And  when  she  left  the  dealer  he  was  bowing  humbly  and 
begging  her  to  use  her  influence  with  M'sieu  Murdoch,  and, 
yes,  with  M'sieu  Kaintucky,  too,  to  have  them  buy  their 
canvases  of  him  in  future,  as  they  had  in  days  gone  by. 
In  the  history  of  the  Quarter  no  dealer  of  whatsoever  kind 
had  begged  humbly  for  Kentucky's  patronage  before. 
What  she  had  said  of  Murdoch  had  not  surprised  the 
dealer.  But  the  idea  of  Kentuckj,  so  situated  that  he 
could  really  pay  his  bills,  without  ingenious  effort,  could 
pay  his  bills  with  money,  was  almost  beyond  belief.  It 
would  be  pleasant,  but  it  would  be  also  startling  to  see 
Kentucky  with  real  money  in  his  pocket.  But  then,  he 
was  an  American — and  one  never  knows  about  Americans. 
Perhaps  in  New  York  City  he  had  found  a  lump  of  gold 
on  Broadway.  Who  could  tell!  It  was  so  wonderful  a 
country — that  America! 

Back  to  the  studio  went  Lizette,  with  a  small  boy  trail 
ing  after  her  in  his  blue  blouse  and  wooden  shoes,  bearing 
the  canvases  upon  his  head.  She  arranged  them  carefully, 
so  that  Murdoch  could  see  the  clean,  white  squares  when 
he  should  first  come  in,  and  see  again  that  she  had  been 
thinking  of  and  for  him. 

Seeing  these  properly  deposited;  having  had  the  rugs 


146  LIZETTE. 

relaid  after  being  satisfied  that  no  dust  was  in  them;  hav 
ing  re-arranged  the  hangings,  so  that  they  should  look 
exactly  as  of  old;  having  scolded  the  concierge  for  the  con 
dition  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  studio  and  watched  her 
while  she  cleaned  them;  having  made  all  outward  things 
look  neat  and  fine,  she  thought  about  John's  personal  be 
longings.  There  were  many  there  which  he  had  not  taken 
to  America.  There  were  some  clothes  and  hats  and  shoes, 
and  there  were  some  painters'  blouses.  Of  a  certainty,  all 
these  must  be  arranged. 

But  Lizette  was  tired.  And  there  also  came  to  her  the 
thought,  that  if  all  these  things  were  done  to-day,  there 
would  be  nothing  for  her  to  do  to-morrow,  and  the  next 
day,  and  the  next,  until  the  slow  ship  should  bring  her 
loved  ones  to  her.  She  was  very  happy  and  the  afternoon 
was  fine.  She  decided  that  she  would  have  a  little  cele 
bration  of  her  own  and  she  engaged  a  cab.  Driving  up 
the  Champs  Elysee,  in  the  little  open  wagon,  she  went  into 
the  Bois.  The  trees  were  very  green,  and  the  grass,  which 
the  caretakers  were  cutting,  was  fragrant  with  sweet  scent. 
She  sat  down  at  a  little  table  under  the  trees  near  one  of 
the  cafes,  alone,  and  had  her  glass  of  coffee.  It  was  one  of 
the  cafes  much  frequented  by  wedding  parties  and  there 
was  one  there  then,  at  late  breakfast. 

The  wedding  parties  of  the  Bourgeoisie,  in  the  Bois,  in 
Paris,  are  worth  seeing.  Such  gayety  there  is  beneath  the 
trees.  How  proud  the  bridegroom  is,  and  how  supremely 
shy  and  happy  is  the  bride!  What  wondrous  pastries  are 
those  which  tower  above  the  waiter's  head  as  he  brings 
them  on,  and  what  tremendous  quantities  of  wine  are 
drunk!  How  proud  the  parents  are,  and  how  long  the 
speeches  of  the  fathers!  How  blooming  are  the  mothers, 
each  looking  at  her  own  beloved  with  eyes  that  glance 
rapidly  along  the  past  of  childhood  and  paint,  in  glowing 
pictures,  the  future  of  maturity  that  stretches  out  before! 
How  the  bride  blushes  and  her  mother  bridles  as  the 
orators  refer  to  both  of  them.  Sometimes  the  old  French 
custom  of  the  garter  is  indulged  in,  though  not  often  now 
adays.  Then  some  bold  young  man  dives  unexpectedly 
beneath  the  table  and  snatches  from  the  bride's  well- 


THE  JOY  OF  PREPARATION.  147 

rounded  leg  the  circlet  of  elastic,  which,  when  he  emerges, 
he  holds  high  above  his  head,  while  all  the  others,  except 
the  bride  herself,  shout  loud  with  glee.  Her  face,  of  course 
(although  she  had  'bought  that  garter  with  great  care  for 
the  selection  and  just  this  in  mind),  is  all  suffused  with 
blushes  and  covered  with  loose  fingers,  through  which  she 
peeps  out,  shyly  laughing.  Then  coine  the  last  speeches 
of  the  day,  while  the  young  men  present  divide  the  garter 
into  bits  and  each  pins  a  fraction  of  it  in  his  buttonhole. 

Lizette  sat  for  an  hour  and  watched  the  bridal  parties. 
Those  in  the  Bois  had  been  the  only  bridal  parties  she 
had  ever  seen.  She  had  watched  them  many  times,  and 
wondered  if  it  would  ever  be  her  fortune  to  have  one  of 
her  own.  She  had  tried  to  imagine,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
before  she  met  her  Pudgy,  the  emotions  of  the  bride.  She 
had  tried  to  see  in  fancy  the  lives  that  had  led  to  such 
emotions,  and  compare  them  with  her  own  life.  She  had 
tried  to,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to,  so  she  had  given  up 
the  trying.  The  only  part  of  all  this  matter  of  the  wed 
dings  which  she  had  been  able  to  clearly  understand  had 
been  the  expressions  on  the  faces  of  the  'brides.  They  were 
such  happy  faces,  and  she  could  readily  understand  why 
that  should  be. 

But  now,  instead  of  envying  the  bride,  she  felt  mildly 
sorry  for  her.  Now,  instead  of  wondering  if  she  would 
ever  be  as  happy,  she  knew  that  she  would  be  much 
happier.  Now,  instead  of  wondering  speculatively, 
whether  she  would  ever  be  the  centre  of  a  party  like  those 
there  in  the  Bois,  she  knew  she  would  not.  For  her  wed 
ding  to  her  Pudgy  would  be  of  quite  another  kind.  There 
would  be  none  there  except  her  loved  one  and  herself,  and 
dear  Kentucky.  There  would  be  no  breakfast  in  the  Bois, 
where  all  the  world  could  look  and  smile  amusedly,  but 
after  the  ceremony,  in  some  quiet  church,  they  would  go 
gravely  to  the  office  of  the  Mayor  for  the  civil  service,  and 
then  to  the  small  restaurant  on  the  Seine  where  they  had 
had  that  charming  dinner  when  Pudgy  had  furnished  the 
dessert,  when  she  had  for  the  first  time  learned  that  he  was 
rich,  when  for  the  first  time  he  had  proclaimed  his  love  of 
her  in  strangers'  presence.  And  then!  Oh;  then!  Long 


148  LIZETTE. 

years  of  life  with  Pudgy  would  come  then,  years  they 
would  be  when  she  would  write  her  name  "Madame  John 
Murdoch,"  and  not  afterwards  tear  the  paper  up,  so  none 
could  see  and  laugh,  amused,  but  sign  herself  thus  boldly 
in  the  conduct  of  the  business  matters  of  the  happy  house 
hold  of  her  Pudgy. 

When  she  thought  of  all  these  happinesses,  she  looked 
again  at  the  wedding  party  in  the  Bois,  and  all  its  charm 
was  gone.  Both  fathers  had  drunk  too  much,  and  the 
mothers'  faces  were  also  red  from  wine.  The  bridegroom 
was  evidently  tipsy  and  the  bride  distressed  by  it.  The 
male  guests,  with  their  coarse  jokes  born  of  the  bits  of 
garter,  were  abhorrent  to  her,  and  the  women,  young  and 
old,  were  common  folk,  who  next  day  would  start  again 
upon  their  routine  humdrum.  They  had  no  Pudgy. 
Therefore  they  had  nothing.  They  were  to  be  pitied  in  an 
indefinite  way,  but  of  a  truth  they  were  not  worth  longer 
looking  at.  She  called  her  little  open  cab. 

The  drive  down  from  the  Bois  was  neither  sad  nor 
happy.  As  the  sun  set  over  the  great  city  it  played  many 
pretty  tricks  along  the  Avenue.  The  shadows  of  the 
buildings  on  one  side  stretched  clear  across  the  broad 
street,  and  the  many  carriages  seemed  to  jump  forward  for 
a  moment  as  they  emerged  from  them  into  the  bright 
light  at  crossings,  or  where  lawns  broke  the  screen  of  high 
walls,  close  upon  the  street.  The  dust  rose  in  thin  clouds 
from  beneath  the  wheels  and  pounding  hoofs.  These 
clouds  were  tinged  with  crimson  as  they  drifted  across  the 
slanting  sun-rays.  She  must,  of  necessity,  drive  slowly,  in 
order  to  keep  in  the  deliberately  moving  line  of  vehicles, 
and  there  was  a  restfulness  about  it  all.  She  leaned  back 
against  the  tarnished  cushions  of  her  hired  cab  and 
dreamed  of  Pudgy.  It  is  certain  that  none  of  the  ladies 
in  fine  carriages  that  passed  her  was  happier  than  she, 
was  looking  forward  with  such  calm  content  to  days  to 
come.  They  may  have  had  their  joys.  Certainly  Lizette 
hoped  that  all  the  world  was  happy.  But  they  had  no 
such  joys  as  hers — for  she  had  Pudgy.  There  was  only 
one  of  him.  The  thought  that  there  might  be  another 
message  from  him  when  she  reached  the  studio  made  her 


THE  JOY  OF  PREPARATION.  149 

lean  forward  in  the  cab  to  tell  the  driver  to  go  more 
quickly,  but  she  fell  back  again,  luxuriously,  before  she 
spoke.  For  Pudgy  was  already  on  the  sea,  and  could  not 
send  a  message. 

She  stopped  at  Notre  Dame  and  dismissed  the  cab. 
There,  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  cathedral,  she  spent  an 
other  hour  in  silent  prayer  to  the  good  Virgin  for  his 
safety. 

On  the  slow  walk  from  the  cathedral  to  the  studio,  she 
stopped  on  the  bridge  to  look  over  at  the  waters  of  the 
Seine.  They  gave  her  peace,  for  they  moved  slow  and 
smooth,  and  they  were  going  to  the  sea,  on  which  was 
Pudgy.  She  thought  now,  as  she  stood  upon  that  bridge, 
of  another  time  when  she  had  looked  on  them — when  it 
was  late  at  night  and  her  soul  had  darkened  as  the  sky  had. 

She  watched  the  waters  happily,  not  at  all  as  she  had 
looked  at  them  that  other  time  when  they  had  not  run 
slow  and  smooth,  but  fast  and  dreadful  to  her  eyes,  and 
when  she  had  thought  of  leaping  into  them,  to  be  borne 
away  forever  from  her  love,  instead  of  loving  them  and 
breathing  kisses  to  them  to  carry  toward  her  Pudgy.  What 
a  night  that  had  been,  when  she  had  run  away  from  him 
because  he  stopped  and  talked  to  friends.  How  she  had 
hurried  from  the  Moulin  Eouge  that  night  and  driven 
wildly  in  a  cab  until  she  reached  the  Quarter.  How  fran 
tically  she  had  rushed  into  the  studio,  to  wildly  weep  be 
cause  her  Pudgy  had  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  time 
flew  fast  while  he  was  talking  with  old  friends  from 
America!  How  stealthily  she  had  crept  downstairs  again, 
all  muffled  in  a  great  cape,  to  hurry,  secretly,  to  this  very 
bridge,  after  stopping  with  Kentucky  at  the  Dromperille, 
and  stand  here,  looking  at  the  hurrying  stream,  wondering 
if  it  were  not  best  to  clasp  her  trouble  to  her  heart  and 
spring  with  it  tight  held  there,  into  them.  They  had  been 
sombre,  wicked,  hurrying  waters  on  that  night,  but  now 
their  flow  was  calm  and  peaceful.  The  lights  upon  their 
shores  had  met  her  gaze  with  wicked,  leering  winks  that 
night,  that  urged  her  to  jump  in  and  end  it  all;  but  now, 
as  twilight  fell  around  her,  they  twinkled  merrily,  as  if 
they  knew  that  Pudgy  was  coming  home  to  her  again. 


150  LIZETTE. 

Slowly  and  happily  she  strolled  down  to  the  studio, 
which  the  great  fire  in  the  new  stove  would  have  made  too 
warm  during  her  absence,  if  she  had  not  left  every  window 
open.  She  was  tired.  While  ske  ate  her  little  dinner 
she  smiled  happily.  It  was  not  many  little  dinners  now 
that  she  would  have  to  eat  alone.  How  the  silver  shone. 
She  had  polished  it  for  Pudgy.  How  the  glass  sparkled. 
She  had  rubbed  it  up  for  Pudgy.  How  the  china  glowed 
and  glittered  in  the  firelight.  She  smiled  and  played  that 
it  was  laughing  over  Pudgy's  coming. 

When  the  charwoman  came  to  clear  away,  Lizette  was 
busy  in  the  bedroom,  arranging  on  the  dresser  for  the 
hundredth  time  some  sketches  of  herself  which  Pudgy 
always  liked  to  have  there.  One  dropped  behind  the 
dresser,  and  she  called  to  the  charwoman  for  help  to  move 
it  out. 

She  picked  the  sketch  up,  and  found,  besides,  a  pair  of 
Pudgy's  socks.  In  her  working  at  the  contents  of  the 
drawers  they  must  have  been  pushed  out  at  the  back.  At 
any  rate,  they  lay  there,  disgraceful  with  their  punctured 
heels  and  toes.  She  looked  them  over  carefully. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  said.  "If  he  should  come  to  Paris 
and  find  them  so!" 

Then,  straightway,  she  seated  herself  by  the  fire  in  the 
new  stove,  and  rocking  to  and  fro,  and  singing  softly,  she 
mended  them  as  no  one  but  Lizette  could  mend.  Finally, 
they  were  finished,  and  she  looked  them  over  carefully. 
The  work  was  somewhat  knobby,  and  she  laughed  a  little 
at  it. 

"It  is  true  that  it  is  very  badly  done,"  she  said,  softly, 
to  herself.  "Alas!  I  cannot  do  the  mending  well,  but  it  is 
of  my  very  best,  and  he  will  know." 

In  the  corner  of  the  room  was  the  small  desk  which  Mur 
doch  had  bought  for  her  when  he  was  teaching  her  to 
write  English.  In  it  she  kept  his  letters — all  except  that 
last  one — that  was  in  her  bodice,  near  her  heart.  There 
were  many  of  them  and  they  were  all  full  of  love.  She  had 
read  them  often.  Over  some  of  them  she  had  had  to  puz 
zle  long  and  earnestly,  when  they  had  first  come,  but  she 
had  worked  each  separate  word  out  in  each  one  by  now,  so 


THE  JOY  OF  PREPARATION.  151 

that  she  reread  them  with  a  rapidity  that  disappointed  her. 
It  was  such  joy  to  read  those  letters.  And  now,  she  read 
them  all  so  quickly  that  it  took  almost  no  time  at  all.  But 
now  there  was  that  last  and  most  wonderful  one  of  all  to 
read.  Surely,  she  could  almost  spend  her  life  in  reading 
that  one,  although  it  was  not  so  very  long.  And  soon  he 
would  be  here,  and  then  there  would  be  no  more  of  them — 
no  more  mere  letters.  Instead  there  would  be — Him!  Her 
Pudgy! 

The  fire  glowed  bright  in  the  new  stove.  The  rug  was 
soft,  and  her  little  body  sank  luxuriously  into  its  long  fur. 
The  day  had  been  a  tiring  one.  She  snuggled  down  content 
edly  as  she  reflected  that  it  was  one  of  very  few  which  now 
must  pass  before  the  great  one  came,  and,  smiling  softly, 
to  herself,  as  she  nestled,  warm  and  lovable  and  happy, 
she  fell  asleep.  Scattered  around  her  were  the  letters  from 
the  man  she  loved.  The  darned  socks,  so  lovingly  made 
terrible  with  knots,  lay  close  by  her  warm,  pink  face  upon 
the  rug.  Somewhere  out  upon  the  ocean  a  big  ship  was 
throbbing  with  the  turning  of  its  paddle  wheels.  She  saw 
it,  great  and  majestic  with  its  power  and  speed,  as  she  lay 
there  asleep,  and  heard  the  swishing  of  the  water  at  its 
bow,  and  hovered  over  it  and  watched  it  lovingly. 

Dawn  had  thrust  delicate  pink  fingers  through  the  in 
terstices  in  the  curtains  before  she  woke.  The  fire  in  the 
new  stove  burned  dimly.  She  rose,  warm  and  glowing, 
from  her  dream  of  him.  Another  night  had  passed,  and 
so,  unthinking  of  anything  but  happiness,  she  began  the 
day. 

Poor  little  Lizette!  If  you  had  known  what  that  day 
would  bring  to  you  would  you  have  smiled  and  stretched 
your  arms  out  toward  the  sunrise  which  smiled  at  you  over 
the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg?  Poor  little  Lizette!  If 
you  had  known,  would  you  have  torn  the  leaf  which 
marked  the  happy  yesterday  so  nimbly  from  the  calendar, 
and  cast  it  with  such  a  pretty  gesture  into  the  fire  in  the 
new  stove?  Poor  little  Lizette!  Would  you  have  pouted 
and  made  pretty  scolding  mouths  at  the  shining  daylight, 
if  you  had  known  the  sorrow  you  would  feel  when  darkness 
came?  Poor  little  Lizette!  Would  your  glance  about  the 


152  LIZETTE. 

studio  have  been  so  careless,  if  you  had  known  how  few 
the  hours  were  which  you  were  to  pass  in  it?  Poor  little 
Lizette!  Would  you  have  run  so  eagerly  to  the  door  to  get 
the  roses  which  the  florists'  boy  brought  every  morning, 
for  you  to  place  in  front  of  Murdoch's  picture  of  "The 
Parting/'  if  you  had  known  that  ere  the  night  fell  one  of 
those  roses  would  rest  within  another  woman's  breast;  that 
with  the  evening's  fall  the  title  of  that  picture  would  have 
a  'new  and  dread  significance;  that  ere  night  came  you 
would  have  said  good-by  to  it  and  all  the  happy  hopes  of 
yesterday?  Would  you  have  hurried,  had  you  known,  and 
worked  your  little  head  and  hands  so  hard  in  order  to  make 
the  day  seem  short  to  you,  if  you  had  known  how  long — 
how  very  long — a  time  would  pass  before  such  happy 
hours  could  come  again? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET. 

Early  in  the  morning  a  great  thought  came  to  Lizette. 
Before  he  started  on  his  loving  errand,  Kentucky  had 
given  the  key  of  his  small  room  to  her  and  asked  her  if 
she  would  sometimes  run  in  to  look  for  mail  for  him. 
They  had  made  a  joke  out  of  the  wild  guess  that  a  great 
check  might  come  to  him  from  somewhere — neither  one 
knew  where — and  that  she  should  be  the  first  to  pick  it  up 
and  have  it  waiting  for  him  when  he  came  back.  From 
the  bright  warmth  and  glow  of  the  dear  old  rooms  there 
on  the  Boulevard,  Lizette,  after  she  had  had  her  coffee, 
hurried  to  Kentucky's  quarters  with  the  charwoman. 
Surely,  Kentucky  must  not  come  home  to  find  that  she 
had  not  thought  of  him!  Not  that  she  would  neglect  one 
atom  of  her  loving  duty  to  her  Pudgy  to  attend  to  the 
affairs  of  any  one  beside,  but  now  that  she  had  done  all 
that  she  could  think  of  at  their  own  studio,  ought  she  not 
to  arrange  some  little  welcome  in  his  home  for  this  friend, 
who  loved  them  both  and  whom  they  loved  so  well? 

She  climbed  the  steep  stairs  to  the  top  of  the  old  build 
ing  on  the  side  street,  where  she  had  helped  Kentucky 
earn  the  money  to  pay  for  those  new  clothes  by  reading 
to  him  while  he  made  the  little  pictures  on  the  slabs,  and 
entered  the  old  student's  attic  quarters.  It  was  as  it  had 
been  on  those  days,  except  for  one  addition.  Hanging  on 
the  only  perpendicular  wall  in  all  the  place  was  a  picture, 
covered  by  heavy  curtains  of  rich,  purple  plush.  They 
seemed  strangely  out  of  place  amidst  the  dirt  and  the 
confusion.  The  picture  was  hung  so  that  when  the  strag 
gling  daylight  came  through  the  small  windows  of  the 
room  it  could  get  what  there  was  of  it,  and  two  oil  lamps 
in  brackets  stood  ready  to  light  the  canvas  when  the  sun 


154  LIZETTE. 

would  not.  The  curtains  were  arranged  with  cords,  which 
reached  over  to  the  miserable  bed.  This  was  evidently  so 
that  when,  wakeful,  he  was  lying  there  and  dreaming  of 
the  past,  he  could  pull  the  cords  and  see  his  picture — that 
only  picture  he  had  ever  sold  and  which  he  had,  with  sac 
rifices,  bought  again,  because  he  had  painted  it  in  the 
joyous  days  when  his  bride  was  with  him  in  the  south  of 
France  before  the  cholera  came  and  took  her  and  the  little 
one. 

Lizette  and  the  charwoman  cleaned  the  room,  and  while 
they  worked  Lizette's  eyes  often  wandered  toward  the  pur 
ple  curtains.  The  picture  which  they  hid  was  evidently 
a  shrine  to  the  poor  student,  just  as  Pudgy's  "Parting" 
was  a  shrine  to  her,  and  her  own  dainty  decoration  of  the 
latter  picture  had  suggested  to  Kentucky  some  of  the  ar 
rangements  about  this.  For,  above  it,  in  a  vase  modeled 
cleverly  of  sculptor's  clay,  there  were  the  withered  frag 
ments  of  some  flowers — carnations.  Lizette  did  not  know, 
but  she  guessed  that  poor  Kentucky  kept  them  there  as 
faithfully  as  she  kept  roses  over  Pudgy's  "Parting."  And 
if  he  did,  she  did  not  guess,  but  know,  that  it  was  only 
done  through  many  sacrifices,  for  carnations,  even  very 
little  bunches  of  them,  cost  much  in  Paris  in  those  days. 

She  sent  the  woman  out  to  buy  some  fresh  carnations, 
and  then  she  drew  the  curtains  back.  Kentucky  had  told 
her  that  some  day  he  should  show  the  picture  to  her,  so 
she  surely  had  the  right  to  look  at  it. 

It  was  not  particularly  good,  but  it  was  by  no  means 
bad,  and  showed  a  strong,  bold  touch,  which  she  knew 
Kentucky's  hand  had  not  had  since  she  had  known  him. 
The  subject  was  not  especially  attractive — a  quaint  French 
graveyard,  with  a  square-towered  church  rising  in  the 
background,  and  over  all  the  quiet  glory  of  a  Southern 
sky  at  sunset.  In  the  very  foreground  was  a  blot  of  fresher 
paint  than  that  which  formed  the  balance  of  the  picture. 
She  imagined,  as  she  studied  it,  that  Kentucky  had  tried 
to  paint  something  in  there  at  a  later  date  than  when  he 
had  finished  the  main  picture,  but  finally,  finding  the  old 
touch  gone  and  the  task  impossible  of  satisfactory  accom 
plishment,  had  given  up  and  left  the  blot. 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  155 

The  girl's  quick  sympathy  went  out  in  a  great  surge  to 
the  queer  old  student,  who  was  coming  over  seas  to  her 
with  Pudgy.  She  had  learned  to  love  Kentucky  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  a  mother's  love — for  in  many  ways 
Kentucky,  despite  his  age,  was  more  a  child  than  she  was 
— and  the  serious  affection  which  a  daughter  feels  for  a 
father  tottering  down  the  further  hill  of  life.  Many  times 
when  they  had  been  alone  together  he  had  talked  to  her  as 
gravely  and  as  kindly  as  a  parent  might,  helping  her  with 
precepts  which,  in  his  own  wrecked  life,  he  had  wholly 
disregarded,  and,  best  of  all,  showing  her  in  many  ways 
how  best  to  do  the  thing  she  ever  strove  to  do — please 
Pudgy. 

The  charwoman  came  back  from  her  pleasant  errand, 
and  Lizette  filled  the  little  vase  with  fresh  carnations. 
Later,  she  gave  an  order  to  have  others  sent  to  her  each 
day  with  Pudgy's  roses.  When  she  left  Kentucky's  room, 
it  was  as  speckless  as  the  studio  which  overlooked  the  Gar 
dens  of  the  Luxembourg. 

Her  dejeuner,  or  second  breakfast,  was  a  very  pleasant 
one.  She  was  not  merry.  That  could  not  be  unless  her 
Pudgy  were  there,  too,  but  she  was  happy  in  anticipation 
of  the  days  to  come.  She  was  pleased  over  what  she  had 
done  at  the  studio  of  Kentucky.  She  pictured  his  sur 
prise  and  smiled.  She  knew  his  eyes  would  fill  with  tears 
when  he  should  see  the  little  flowers  and  thought  about 
her  love,  of  which  they  were  the  token.  How  fond  she 
was  of  him!  She  did  not  know  it,  but  in  Lizette's  mind  he 
acted  as  a  foil  for  Murdoch.  One  so  big,  so  strong,  con 
vincing  and  successful;  the  other  slim  and  bent,  so  hesi 
tating,  so  complete  a  failure.  While  she  sat  she  thought 
much  about  that  picture  in  his  room.  Kentucky  had  told 
her  what  privations  and  economies  he  had  endured  to 
buy  it  back.  Perhaps  that  formless  blot  there  in  the  fore 
ground  had  been  started  for  a  grave.  Perhaps  it  marked 
the  place  where  his  loved  one  and  their  baby  were  sleeping 
their  eternal  sleep  when  he  came  back  from  America  to 
find  them  lost  to  him  forever.  Perhaps  he  had  tried  to 
paint  their  grave  in  after  he  had  bought  the  picture  back, 
to  find  that  with  their  loss  had  come  another — that  of  the 


156  LIZETTE. 

cunning  of  his  hand.  Then,  she  reasoned,  there  would  be 
another  sad  significance  to  that  grave.  Not  only  would 
his  loves  lie  huried  there,  in  that  event,  but  his  ambition, 
also.  Who  knew  what  delicacies  and  refined  vagaries  of 
troubled  thought  came  to  that  splendid  but  misdirected 
brain  of  his,  when,  alone  in  that  attic  room,  his  thoughts 
compared  the  self  that  was  with  the  self  that  might  have 
been? 

After  she  had  made  one  more  inspection  of  the  studio  and 
found  it  perfect  so  far  as  she  could  make  it,  she  sat  down 
before  the  new  stove.  It  was  not  so  warm  to-day,  and  she 
could  sit  there  without  suffering.  This  was  comforting. 
She  would  have  fried  rather  than  have  let  the  fire  go  out. 
How  true  and  fine  her  love  had  been  to  her!  His  short 
comings  and  delays  were  all  forgotten.  He  was  not  like 
other  men — her  Pudgy!  There  could  be  no  question  of 
Ms  love  and  faithfulness.  Their  love  was  perfect — per 
fect!  How  different  it  had  been  from  that  of  the  few  peo 
ple  she  had  known  about  in  life,  and  how  different  from 
those  whose  loves  she  read  about  in  books!  So  smooth 
and  fine  its  course  had  been!  To  be  sure,  there  had  been 
the  great  sorrow  of  their  separation,  but  what  of  that?  It 
was  even  now  almost  at  its  end.  She  recalled  the  little 
storm  which,  for  a  few  hours,  had  ruffled  it.  That  night, 
at  the  Moulin  Eouge,  when  Pudgy  stopped  to  talk  and 
stayed  too  long  with  the  friends  from  America,  rose  up 
before  her  in  her  memory,  and  she  laughed  softly  as  she 
thought  of  it.  She  laughed  very  pleasantly,  did  Lizette, 
sitting  there  in  the  glow  from  the  new  stove  in  the  studio, 
whose  windows  overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxem 
bourg.  How  she  had  hated  that  American  girl  that  night! 
How  much  more  would  she  have  hated  her  had  she  known 
then  what  he  told  her  later — that  once  he  had  thought  he 
loved  her  and  had  thought  of  asking  her  to  marry  him.  It 
had  been  lucky  for  that  girl  that  night,  she  thought,  that 
she  had  not  known  that  then.  If  she  had  known. — why,  she 
might  have  been  again  the  "tiger  cat  p'tite,"  who  had  so 
discomfited  the  English  student.  She  might  have  been. 
Who  knew?  She  was  so  foolish,  was  Lizette!  She  was 
glad,  now,  that  she  had  not  known.  Pudgy  had  told  the 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  157 

story  to  her  very  simply  and  very  earnestly.  He  had  not 
made  light  of  it,  but  he  had  said  to  her  that  he  was  very 
thankful  that  he  had  come  to  Paris  and  found  her — Lizette 
— instead. 

Dear  Pudgy!  She  could  not  imagine  herself  feeling 
jealous  of  him  now,  as  she  had  known  some  of  the  women 
of  the  Quarter  to  feel  jealous  of  the  men  they  thought  they 
loved,  as  the  heroines  of  some  of  the  novels  she  had  read 
had  been  reported  by  the  authors  to  have  felt.  That  one 
lesson  had  been  enough  of  jealousy  for  her,  she  thought, 
that  night  of  the  Moulin  Eouge,  those  dark  glances  after 
wards  at  the  Seine,  and  the  miserable  hours  in  the  studio 
before  Pudgy,  flushed  and  anxious  from  his  searching  of 
all  Paris,  had  found  her  weeping  there  alone. 

The  concierge  came  in.  She  spoke  in  French,  for  she 
had  no  knowledge  at  all  of  English. 

"Two  ladies  are  coming  up  the  stairs,"  she  said. 
"They  wish  to  see  M'sieu  Murdoch.  I  told  them  what  you 
told  me — that  he  was  coming,  but  I  tried  to  make  them 
understand  that  he  would  not  be  here  at  once,  but  in  a  few 
days,  but  I  could  not  make  them  understand.  They  speak 
little  French.  You  will  see  them,  Madame,  and  make  them 
understand?" 

"Two  ladies  coming  up  the  stairs  to  see  M'sieu  Mur 
doch?"  said  Lizette,  wondering.  "Yes.  I  will  see  them 
and  explain." 

It  was  very  strange.  Such  a  thing  had  not  happened  in 
the  history  of  the  studio. 

She  was  much  disturbed.  How  had  they  found  where 
his  studio  was?  But  no.  That  was  an  easy  matter.  Of 
course,  they  were  Americans.  The  fact  that  the  concierge 
had  been  unable  to  make  them  understand  was  proof  of 
that.  They  never  could  speak  French — Americans.  The 
English — they  were  bad  enough  in  that  respect,  but  the 
Americans!  What  did  they  want  to  see  her  Pudgy  for? 
Her  heart  was  just  beginning  to  flutter  with  those  little 
pangs  of  jealousy  which  within  ten  minutes  she  had  as 
sured  herself  should  never  make  it  burn  again.  This 
made  her  angry  and  she  tried  to  stop  it,  but  she  could  not. 
She  hurried  into  her  room  to  take  off  the  wrapper  of  rich 


158  LIZETTE. 

red  and  put  on  something  more  conventional.  While  she 
was  there  dressing,  she  heard  through  the  curtains  the  rich 
rustle  of  incoming  silks  and  some  talk  in  English.  She 
stopped  to  listen.  She  knew  exactly  what  the  visitors  did, 
although  she  could  not  see  them.  She  knew  that  one  had 
seated  herself  with  a  sigh  of  comfort  after  climbing  the 
stairs,  and  that  the  other  was  standing  looking  at  her, 
smiling. 

"You  always  drop  into  the  very  first  chair  here  in  Paris, 
Auntie,"  said  the  standing  one.  "I  am  sure  that  that  one 
over  by  the  window  is  more  comfortable." 

"My  dear,"  was  the  reply,  "these  French  stairs  always 
wear  me  out.  They  make  their  rooms  so  high  in  Paris 
that  their  stairs  are  interminable.  I'm  always  glad  to  get 
anything  to  sit  on  after  a  flight  of  them.  I  hope  he's  here, 
after  all  the  work  we've  had  to  get  here.  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  what  that  poor  woman  was  jabbering  about  down 
stairs.  He  didn't  say  he'd  be  here  now." 

"He  said  he  was  coming  over  as  soon  as  he  could,"  was 
the  response,  "and  you  know  the  summer  is  the  dull  time 
in  banking  houses.  What  a  lovely  place  he  has  here!  And 
look  at  it!  He  must  be  here.  No  servant  would  ever  keep 
it  up  like  this  if  he  were  not.  I  should  think  he  would  be 
sorry  to  give  all  this  up  to  be  a  tiresome  banker  in  New 
York.  But  I  suppose  that  when  his  father  died,  he  had 
to  do  it." 

"I  can't  imagine  him  an  artist,"  said  the  elder  woman. 
"He  seems  so  staid  and  practical  and  earnest.  He  is  not 
at  all  what  one  imagines  a  young  man  who  has  studied  art 
in  Paris  to  be  like.  They  are  all  so  wildly  dissipated  over 
here,  and  wicked  and  all  that!  But  I  can't  imagine  John 
Murdoch  dissipating." 

"You  can't  imagine  the  John  Murdoch  we  know  paint 
ing  pictures,  can  you,  Auntie?"  asked  the  girl.  "But  there 
is  another  one — a  different  John  Murdoch.  Sometimes  I 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  other  one." 

"They  say  that  he  is  very  matter-of-fact  and  business 
like  at  the  bank,"  remarked  the  aunt.  "And,  after  that 
Jones  &  Co.  affair,  you  know  how  he  took  hold  and  saved 
the  creditors  when  everybody  thought  there  was  no  hope!'' 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  159 

The  little  one  behind  the  curtain  drunk  this  in.  It 
seemed  wrong  to  her  that  strangers  should  invade  the 
rooms  which  she  had  not  wanted  any  one  to  see  until  her 
Pudgy  looked  at  them  himself,  but  if  people  came  it  was 
well  that  they  should  be  folk  who  had  good  things  to  say 
of  him.  She  did  not  realize  that  she  was  eaves-dropping. 
Perhaps  she  was  not.  Is  it  not  excusable  for  one  to  hear 
what  other  people  say  in  one's  own  home?  And  she  was 
glad  to  hear  them,  if  they  must  be  there,  praise  Pudgy 
while  they  tarried. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  be  long  in  coming,"  said  the  elder  one 
— the  one  the  other  had  spoken  to  as  "Auntie."  "I  hope 
not,"  she  went  on.  "I've  so  much  to  do  to-day.  "Won't  he 
be  surprised  to  see  us,  though?  It's  all  right  for  me  to 
bring  you  here  in  Paris.  That's  the  charm  in  Paris — its 
unconventionality.  I  suppose  that  we  might  have  sent  a 
note  to  him  and  had  him  call  at  the  hotel,  but  it's  so  much 
more  in  the  spirit  of  the  place,  especially  the  Latin  Quar 
ter,  for  us  to  stop  and  call  on  him.  As  soon  as  I  can  get 
my  breath  I'm  going  to  look  around.  Last  time  we  were 
in  Paris — you  remember — we  met  him  at  the  Moulin 
Rouge.  I  believe  that  it  is  because  we  can  do  dreadful 
things  and  go  to  dreadful  places  here  without  ~bdng  dread 
ful,  that  we  Americans  like  so  much  to  come  here." 

The  little  one  behind  the  curtains  gave  a  tiny  gasp.  So 
these  were  the  American  ladies  who  had  delayed  him  that 
dreadful  night  when  she  had  fled  and  looked  so  darkly  at 
the  Seine  in  passing.  And  that  one — the  younger  one 
there — must  be  she  whom  for  a  time  he  had  thought  of 
marrying.  She  must  study  that  girl  carefully,  while  she 
had  a  chance,  now,  for  when  Pudgy  had  spoken  about  her 
he  had  said  that  she  was  really  a  splendid  girl.  She 
remembered  the  intonation  of  his  voice  in  saying  it. 
Lizette  never  hoped  to  be  a  splendid  girl.  She  only 
wanted  to  be  all  in  all  to  Pudgy.  That  was  quite  enough. 
But  she  would  observe  the  other  girl  who  was;  she  would 
study  her  from  behind  the  portiere  there.  Perhaps  she 
might  make  some  mental  notes  for  future  reference.  She 
could  see  her  plainly,  now.  She  was  tall  and  lithe — that 
girl  in  there — and  was  beautifully  gowned.  Not  like  a 


160  LIZETTE. 

French  woman,  the  least  tiny  bit,  but  very  simply,  very 
richly.  She  must  be  rich,  that  girl,  and  she,  Lizette,  was 
poor.  That  did  not  matter,  though,  for  Pudgy  loved 
Lizette.  He  did  not  love  this  rich  girl.  As  Lizette 
looked,  the  other  lounged  around  the  room,  going  slowly 
to  the  window.  She  was  very  graceful.  She  was  all 
curves,  that  girl  in  there — long,  splendid  curves — and 
almost  as  tall  as  Pudgy,  Lizette  reflected,  as  she  watched 
her  closely  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  him,  my  dear?"  asked  the  elder 
woman. 

The  girl  at  the  window  did  not  even  turn.  She  an 
swered  musingly  and  lazily: 

"Why!  One  good  reason  is  that  he  has  never  asked  me 
to  and  never  will." 

The  question  had  amazed  Lizette  and  made  her  gasp. 
Wild  horses  could  not  have  torn  her  from  her  place  after 
that  question  had  been  asked.  Up  to  that  instant,  she  had 
intended  to  watch  them  for  a  little  second,  and  then  go  in 
and  make  them  understand  their  error,  that  Mudroch  was 
not  expected  momentarily,  but  that  he  was  on  the  sea  and 
would  be  there  in  a  day  or  two.  Now  she  could  not  move 
at  all.  That  tall  girl  at  the  window,  so  self-possessed,  so 
calm — she  was  of  a  verity  the  one!  Ah-h-h!  She  could 
not  go.  She  must  look  at  her.  Of  a  certainty  he  had 
not  asked  her,  and  never  would.  He  loved  Lizette. 

"Would  you  have  married  him  if  he  had  asked  you?" 
persisted  the  aunt. 

"Oh,  Auntie!  What  a  question!"  said  the  tall  girl.  "How 
does  one  know  what  one  would  do  if  some  perfectly  impos 
sible  other  thing  should  happen?" 

"Why  impossible?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  tall  girl,  slowly,  "I  think  that  he 
loves  some  one  else,  and  that  is  why  it  is  'impossible/  " 

She  turned  now  so  that  she  half  faced  her  aunt,  and 
wholly  faced  Lizette.  The  little  one  behind  the  curtain 
noislessly  drew  back  a  bit,  so  that  the  light  shining  through 
the  curtains  should  not  strike  her  eyes  and  make  them 
glitter,  thus  telling  tales  of  her.  The  American  was  very 
splendid  as  she  turned.  Her  beauty  almost  made  Lizette 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  161 

cry  out.  It  was  regal.  Lizette's  very  heart  hurt  as  she 
looked  at  it,  but  it  jumped  out  toward  Pudgy  at  the  same 
time,  for  had  he  not  chosen  her — Lizette — and  passed  this 
splendid  creature  by?  She  drank  her  beauty  in  with  all 
her  eyes  and  breathed  quickly. 

The  elder  woman  was  persistent. 

"But  you  would  marry  him  if  he  should  ask  you  now?" 
she  asked. 

The  tall  girl  made  no  reply  at  first.  She  walked  to  a 
front  window  and  looked  down  at  the  Boulevard.  For  a 
moment  she  stood  there  with  her  face  invisible  to  the 
watching  one.  She  was  close  by  Lizette's  small  desk  and 
laid  a  careless  hand  upon  it.  She  did  not  know  the  con 
tents  of  that  desk,  Lizette  thought,  triumphantly.  She 
did  not  know  about  the  letters  from  John  Murdoch  that 
were  hidden  there — letters  to  his  sweetheart,  who  waited 
for  him  in  Paris.  Oh,  no!  She  knew  not  a  thing  of  them! 
And  that  last  one!  If  she  could  see  the  others  she  would 
see  from  them  that  he  could  never  and  never  would  love 
anyone  except  Lizette.  If  she  could  see  that  last  one — 
most  wonderful  of  all — she  would  see  that  he  would  marry 
no  one  except  Lizette — Lizette  behind  the  curtains,  who 
was  watching  her. 

After  a  moment  the  aunt  went  on.  Lizette  thought 
that  if  she  had  been  the  tall  girl  she  would  have  wished  to 
strangle  the  old  woman. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  the  aunt  said,  "that  nothing  could  be 
better.  I  shall  tell  you  this — here  in  his  studio,  before 
he  comes.  You  know  he  cares  for  you." 

"Auntie!"  the  tall  girl  said  in  protest,  "please!" 

There  was  a  little  something  in  her  voice  which  tried  to 
find  Lizette's  heart  as  she  listened,  but  did  not,  quite. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  her  aunt,  "if  you  can't  talk  of 
these  things  with  me,  whom  can  you  talk  them  over  with?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  talk  of  them  with  anyone,"  the  tall  girl 
said. 

"I  believe,"  said  the  aunt,  "that  I  recognize  the  symp 
toms.  I  believe  you  love  him,  Mary." 

"So  her  name  is  Mary,"  thought  the  little  one  behind 
the  curtain.  "That  was  the  name." 


162  LIZETTE. 

"You  certainly  were  good  friends  before  he  came  to 
Paris,"  said  the  aunt.  "I  remember  that  you  went  to 
commencement  when  he  graduated.  I  ought  to  remember 
it.  I  had  to  go  with  you  and  it  nearly  wore  me  out." 

"I  knew  other  boys  who  graduated  that  same  year,"  the 
girl  said.  "I  don't  see  why  you  should  say  that  I  went  es 
pecially  because  he  graduated." 

"Did  you  never  correspond  after  he  came  to  Paris?" 
asked  the  aunt. 

"Yes.  But  that  was  years  ago,"  the  tall  girl  answered. 
"What  in  the  world  is  the  use  of  talking  of  it  now?" 

"Who  stopped  the  letter  writing?"  asked  the  aunt. 

The  tall  girl  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  went  to  an 
other  window  and  fingered  the  curtain  nervously,  as  she 
paused. 

"He  did,"  she  said,  finally.  She  added,  as  if  in  defense 
of  him,  "but  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not. 
They  were  simply  letters  that  we  wrote.  There  was  never 
any  hint  of  anything  but  friendship  in  them.  I  didn't 
blame  him  then  and  I  don't  blame  him  now.  I  don't  see 
why  you  should.  He  was  over  here,  working  hard  and 
deeply  interested  in  his  painting.  There  never  had  been 
any  single  word  of  anything  but  friendship — a  kind  of 
grown-up  boy  and  girl  friendship  between  us.  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  blame  him." 

"I'm  not  blaming  him;  I'm  only  asking,"  said  the  aunt. 

"John  Murdoch  is  the  finest  man  I  ever  knew,"  the  girl 
said,  slowly.  "Yes.  I  was  in  love  with  him.  There  was 
no  need  for  you  to  drag  it  out  of  me.  You  knew  it  then, 
and  you  had  not  forgotten,  but  he  was  not  in  love  with  me 
and — there  is  nothing  more  to  say." 

She  went  over  to  the  curtains  behind  which  'Tarting" 
hung. 

"Oh,  see  the  lovely  roses!"  she  exclaimed..  "I  wonder 
what  there  is  behind  the  curtains." 

Lizette  was  in  an  agony.  Her  lips  set  tightly  and  her 
hands  clenched.  She  almost  feared  that  if  that  other  girl 
who  loved  John  Murdoch  should  draw  the  curtains  that 
hung  over  'Tarting"  she  should  run  in  and  spring  at  her 
But  she  did  not,  for  the  tall  girl  drew  them  softly — almost 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  163 

with  reverence — and  Lizette's  anger  died  away.  The  sit 
uation  gave  her  a  strange  pleasure  which  she  knew  was 
wrong.  Now  this  other  woman,  who  only  knew  John  Mur 
doch  as  a  banker,  would  see  his  picture  and  would  have 
cause  to  mourn.  She  would  know  when  she  saw  his  pict 
ure,  what  an  artist  she  had  lost!  She  thought  that  she 
had  lost  a  mere  commercial  man — a  banker.  Bah!  Who 
cared  for  bankers?  Americans,  perhaps,  but  not  Lizette. 
And  now  that  other  girl  would  know,  when  she  looked  on 
Pudgy's  picture,  that  she  had  lost  an  artist. 

Lizette  strained  forward  so  in  watching  that  she  almost 
made  the  portieres  move,  but  she  need  not  have  worried 
if  she  had.  The  aunt  was  absorbed  in  watching  the  tall 
girl  before  the  picture  and  the  tall  girl  was  slowly,  slowly, 
drawing  back  the  curtains.  She  was  very  beautiful,  of  a 
certainty,  that  tall  girl.  Every  line  was  grace  and  her 
face  was  lovely,  too,  in  spite  of  its  drawn,  strained  look  of 
pain.  That  look  of  pain  was  certainly  upon  it.  Lizette 
imagined  that  that  face  must  generally  be  calm  and  placid. 
But  now,  as  the  curtains  slowly  parted  from  before  the 
picture  that  the  man  she  loved  and  could  not  have  had 
painted,  it  was  not  placid.  The  little  one  behind  the  por 
tiere  knew  that  if  her  own  breath  was  coming  quick  and 
sharp  as  she  looked  on,  the  bosom  of  that  other  girl,  in 
there,  heaved,  too.  She  knew  that  if  the  color  was  blazing, 
unseen,  in  her  cheeks,  the  tall  girl's  face  was  also  flushing 
painfully.  She  knew  that  if  her  hand  was  rigid  with 
emotion,  the  tall  girl's  trembled.  For  she  saw  the  cur 
tains  there  before  the  picture  shake  and  quiver  in  her  hold 
as  she  drew  them  slowly  back. 

When  the  tall  girl  saw  the  picture  she  retreated  a  few 
steps  with  a  little  gasp  of  admiration. 

"It  is  beautiful!"  she  said. 

Her  aunt  had  risen,  and  confirmed  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  beautiful." 

This  was  grateful  to  Lizette.  If  this  tall  girl,  who  loved 
John  Murdoch  and  dared  to  try  to  find  him  at  his  studio, 
must  persist  in  loving  him  when  he  was  hers — Lizette's — 
let  her  know  that  she  had  reason  to  respect  his  art.  It  was 
beautiful — that  picture.  It  was  beautiful.  Lizette  en- 


164  LIZETTE. 

joyed  watching  the  tall  girl  as  she  looked  at  it  and  let  the 
true  beauty  of  it  sink  into  her,  and  then  she  longed  to 
rush  in  and  say  to  her  that  it  was  she — Lizette — who  had 
inspired  it;  that  it  was  she — Lizette — who  had  posed  for 
it;  that  it  was  she — Lizette — to  whom  it  had  been  given 
by  the  artist  who  would  not  sell  a  picture;  that  it  was  she 
who  kept  the  roses  fresh  above  it,  and  loved  it,  and  almost 
prayed  to  it.  She  wanted  to  hurry  in  and  tell  the  tall  girl 
that  there  was  no  hope  for  her — the  tall  girl.  She  wanted 
to  tell  her  that  it  was  she — Lizette — whom  Murdoch  loved 
and  whom  he  had  asked  to  marry  him.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  would  like  to  read  that  letter  to  the  tall  girl — that 
letter  in  which  John  Murdoch  had  said  to  her — Lizette — 
that  he  should  come  and  take  her  back  to  New  York  City, 
where  the  tall  girl  lived  and  where  she  had,  no  doubt, 
schemed  to  get  him  for  herself. 

For  a  moment  Lizette  wished  to  hurt  the  tall  girl,  to 
tear  her  smooth,  reposeful  face  with  small,  pink  finger 
nails,  and  make  her  cry  out  because  of  pain.  But  then 
the  tall  girl  turned,  and  when  she  turned  Lizette  could 
see  her  face  quite  plainly.  It  was  a  pleasant  face,  and  now 
there  was  a  look  of  agony  upon  it  which  penetrated  to  the 
depths  of  Lizette's  heart,  as  surely  as  those  other  and  less 
admirable  emotions  had  rushed  up  to  her  head  a  moment 
since.  There  was  no  possibility  of  doubt.  The  tall  girl 
loved  John  Murdoch.  It  was  real  love.  Lizette  almost 
shivered  as  she  realized  that  the  tall  girl's  love  was  much 
the  same  as  hers,  with  the  great  and  crushing  difference 
that  it  was  hopeless.  Poor  tall  girl.  She  did  not  wish  to 
scratch  her  any  more,  not  after  she  had  seen  her  turn  away 
from  Pudgy's  "Parting"  with  that  look  of  pain  upon  her 
face  and  that  gesture  of  despair.  The  thought  rushed 
through  her  mind  that  she  would  like  to  run  and  throw 
her  arms  around  the  tall  girl's  neck  and  comfort  her.  -The 
tense  muscles  of  the  little  girl  behind  the  portieres  re 
laxed.  Her  head  dropped  forward,  and  she  looked  out, 
pitying,  with  upturned  eyes.  She  watched  the  tall  girl 
turn  away  from  "Parting,"  and  was  very,  very  sorry  for 
her. 

The  aunt  was  chattering.     She  was  saying  that  the 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  165 

picture  was,  really,  very  good.  Bah,  what  an  aunt!  And 
what  a  thing  to  say  of  "Parting."  But  when  the  aunt,  too, 
saw  the  tall  girl's  face  and  noted  that  the  tears  were  run 
ning  down  its  cheeks,  she  stopped  her  chattering,  and  only 
said: 

"Why,  my  poor  girl.  Forgive  me.  I  did  not  know  you 
cared  so  much." 

The  tall  girl  shook  her  head  hravely  and  looked  her  aunt 
full  in  the  face  as  she  wiped  away  her  tears.  She  said: 

"You  see,  I  do  care,  Auntie.  I  did  not  mean  that  any 
one  should  know.  Please  don't  let's  talk  about  it.  It  is 
very  hard  for  me.  It's  silly — for  he  does  not  even  think 
of  me  at  all.  When  he  left  America  to  come  here  first,  I 
thought — or  rather  hoped — he  did.  When  we  met  him 
here  in  Paris — you  know  that  night — I  knew  he  did  not. 
If  he  had  ever  loved  me,  he  had  stopped  before  that  night. 
I  could  tell.  I  knew  that  I  was  not  mistaken.  Either  he 
had  found  some  other  girl  to  love,  or  else,  in  the  develop 
ment  which  came  here,  with  his  work,  he  had  passed  over 
and  beyond  me.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  saw  then  that  if 
he  had  ever  loved  me,  he  had  stopped.  I  shall  get  over  it, 
of  course.  We  women  have  to.  We  cannot  speak.  We 
cannot  tell  our  love.  We  must  wait  and  wait  until  the 
other  loves,  and  comes  to  us  and  tells  us.  It  doesn't  seem 
quite  fair.  We  can  do  nothing  to  show  a  man.  We  must 
always  wait  for  him. 

"Not,"  she  added,  hastily,  "that  I  could  do  such  a  thing 
as  to  tell  him,  or  ever  would,  but  it  does  not  seem  quite 
fair." 

She  took  her  parasol,  which  she  had  leaned  against  a 
chair  while  she  was  drawing  back  the  curtains,  and  tapped 
her  toes  with  it  while  she  went  on  with  downcast  eyes. 

"Only  a  little  while  after  his  father's  death,  I  met  him 
while  I  was  driving  in  the  park.  I  asked  him  to  get  in 
with  me.  I  had  expected  to  find  you  at  the  Donnellsons, 
you  know,  but  got  word  there  that  you  had  gone  on  to 
Mrs.  Frazer's.  So  I  was  driving  up  alone  to  get  you.  He 
drove  with  me  to  the  exit  from  the  Park,  and  I  watched 
him  and  what  he  said,  oh,  very  closely.  He  was  in  a  great 
hurry  to  get  back  to  Paris,  he  told  me.  He  said  it  seemed 


166  LIZETTE. 

to  him  as  if  the  powers  of  earth  and  air  conspired  to  keep 
him  from  going  back  to  Paris.  He  said  that  every  time 
he  planned  to  go  some  new  thing  would  turn  up  to  hold 
him  back.  It  was  just  at  the  time  of  the  big  Jones  failure, 
you  know,  and  he  was  looking  dreadfully  tired  and  jaded, 
but  he  said  that  just  as  soon  as  he  could  possibly  get  things 
arranged  so  that  it  would  not  hurt  any  interests  but  his 
own  to  go,  he  should  start,  and  that  nothing  should  stop 
him  then. 

"I  asked  him  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  get  back  here,  but 
he  did  not  tell  me.  I  asked  him  if  he  intended  to  take 
up  his  art  again,  or  if  he  intended  ever  to  give  up  the 
business  in  New  York  at  which  he  had  been  so  successful. 
He  said  he  did  not  know.  He  said  the  painting  was  very 
dear  to  him,  but  that  he  had  learned  to  love  the  other 
business,  too.  I  asked  him  if  he  should  stay  long  in  Paris, 
and  again  he  said  he  did  not  know.  There  was  something 
in  the  way  he  spoke  that  made  me  look  up  sharply  at  him. 
I  had  been  looking  at  the  trees.  He  seemed  confused.  It 
is  hard  to  think  of  him  as  blushing  and  embarrassed,  but 
he  was  both  then,  and  then  I  knew." 

"Knew  what?    Was  that  all,  Mary?"  asked  the  aunt. 

"No,  not  quite,"  the  tall  girl  answered.  "It  was  not 
quite  all.  I  asked  him  if,  when  he  came  back  to  New 
York  again,  as,  of  course,  he  would  come  back,  some  time, 
he  should  bring  with  him  anyone. 

"  'Yes,'  he  said.  'I  have  a  very  dear  friend  there  named 
Kentucky.  I  shall  bring  him  back,  if  he  will  come.  He  is 
getting  old  and  I  want  him  to  have  rest  and  comfort  be 
fore  the  end  comes  for  him.  And,  besides,  it  will  give  me 
rest  and  comfort  to  have  him  with  me/ 

"Oh,  I  remember  every  word  he  said/'  the  tall  girl  said. 
"And  then  I  asked,  'Is  that  all?  Shall  you  bring  back 
only  your  old  artist  chum?' 

arWhat  do  you  mean?'  he  asked. 

"I  tried  to  be  gay  and  to  rally  him  a  little,  but  I  did  it 
very  badly.  He  did  not  know  it,  though,  and  that's  a  com 
fort.  I  could  see  by  his  face  that  he  was  so  busy  thinking 
of  something  or  someone  far  away  that  he  did  not  at  that 
moment  see  the  Park  or  me,  or  even  realize,  for  the  instant, 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  167 

that  he  was  driving  with  me.  There  was  an  expression  on 
his  face  that  I  would  give  the  world  if  it  would  wear  when 
I  was  absent  and  he  thought  of  me.  He  did  not  answer 
and  I  did  not  ask  him  any  more.  I  knew.  John  Mur 
doch  is  in  love,  Auntie,  and  he  is  coming  over  here  to  get 
the  girl  he  loves  and  take  her  back  with  him." 

The  tall  girl  stood  facing  her  aunt  with  blazing  face 
and  eyes  made  brilliant  by  the  tears  in  them. 

"I  love  him!  Yes,  I  love  him!"  she  said,  almost  de 
fiantly.  "I  have  told  you  about  it  because  I  could  not 
help  telling  someone  about  it.  You  did  not  force  my  con 
fidence.  It  was  this  place  and  these  things — all  his — that 
made  me  tell.  I  love  them  all.  I  love  everything  that's 
his  or  that  he  loves — except — except  that  other  woman. 
I  am  glad  I  told  you,  though.  It  has  relieved  me.  I  shall 
try  to  get  over  it.  I  don't  know  why  I  love  him.  I  have 
really  seen  very  little  of  him  of  late  years,  but  I  da  love 
him.  I  believe  that  he  is  the  most  genuine  man  I  ever 
met.  He  couldn't  lie.  He  couldn't  cheat.  One  cannot 
say  that  of  many  men — or  many  women.  He  is  a  real 
man — and  that  is  why  I  love  him.  He  is  a  true  man — and 
that  is  why  I  love  him.  He  is  a  genius  of  no  ordinary 
kind — look  at  this  picture  and  what  was  said  about  it  by 
the  folk  that  know,  and  then  look  at  that  other  and  so 
different  work  at  which  he  has  won  success — and  that  is 
why  I  love  him!" 

She  shook  her  head  again  to  shake  away  the  tears.  She 
smiled  bravely  at  her  aunt. 

"Let  us  go,  now,  Auntie,"  she  said.  "You  see  what  I 
am  doing.  I  am  crying.  I  should  not  want  him  to  come 
here  and  find  me  crying.  It  has  humiliated  me  to  tell  you 
even.  I  should  not  want  to  have  him  know." 

And  as  she  looked  at  her  aunt  with  her  big  eyes  full  of 
tears,  but  with  her  head  thrown  bravely  back,  Lizette,  who 
was  watching  her  unseen,  gasped  in  admiration  of  her,  in 
admiration  of  this  tall  girl  whom  Pudgy  did  not  love  be 
cause  he  loved — Lizette!  Why  should  Murdoch  care  for 
her,  she  asked  herself  in  real  humility,  when  this  splendid 
tall  girl  loved  him?  It  was  very  strange,  and  the  tall  girl's 
pain  was  pitiful.  Lizette  was  very  sorry  for  her. 


168  LIZETTE. 

The  aunt  was  not  unsympathetic,  either,  after  all,  for 
she  went  to  the  tall  girl  with  her  arms  out  and  took  her 
into  them,  and  pulled  her  head  down  to  her  shoulder  and 
said  again  that  she  was  very  sorry.  So  they  stood  there 
for  a  moment — that  tall  girl  and  the  aunt — the  tall  girl 
from  America  who  loved  John  Murdoch,  but  whom  John 
Murdoch  did  not  love  because  he  loved — Lizette. 

"When  the  tall  girl  lifted  up  her  head  she  sobbed.  She 
had  wholly  lost  her  self  control. 

"And  it  is  so  strange,  Auntie,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "I 
cannot  think  of  him  as  married  to  anyone  but  me.  But  I 
earnestly  wish  him  every  good.  It  does  not  anger  me — 
his  loving  someone  else.  I  only  hope  and  pray  that  she 
he  loves  is  worthy  of  him  and  will  make  him  happy.  That 
is  true,  Auntie,  very  true.  I  cannot  feel  angry  at  him  and 
I  cannot  hate  her,  somehow.  Of  course,  I  do  not  know 
her,  but  I  cannot  think  of  her  except  to  hope  that  she  will 
prove  worthy  of  a  good  man's  love  and  make  him  very 
happy." 

This  was  a  strange  thing  for  the  tall  girl  to  say,  thought 
Lizette.  It  seemed  to  her,  listening  there  behind  the  cur 
tain,  that  it  was  not  natural,  but  she  liked  her  none  the 
less  for  it. 

"I  hope,"  said  the  aunt,  less  pleasantly,  "that  while  he 
has  been  here  in  Paris  he  has  not  become  entangled  with 
any  woman  who  is  unworthy  of  him.  I  know  little  of 
these  French  women,  but  what  I  do  know  is  not  greatly  to 
their  credit.  I  hope  that  he  has  not  become  entangled 
with  someone  who  will  harm  him,  who  will  drag  him  down. 
Artists  are  strange  people.  You  know  Charles  Fosdyck? 
His  mother  was  one  of  my  friends.  He  married  a  model 
over  here  and  was  cast  off  for  it  by  his  father  and  thrown 
out  by  everyone.  I  hope  John  Murdoch  is  not  such  a  fool 
as  that.  I  hope  he  did  not,  in  the  first  place,  come  over 
here  to  find  his  ruin,  and  if  he  did  I  hope  that  lie  will  not 
return  to  claim  it  and  to  take  it  back  with  him." 

There  was  more  than  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  the  old 
woman's  tone.  It  made  Lizette  flush  up  and  burn  and 
want  to  scream  at  her. 

"I  thought  Mrs.  Fosdyek  an  attractive  woman.    I  only 


MARY  MARKLEHAM'S  SECRET.  169 

saw  her  once,"  said  the  tall  girl.  She  was  gathering  her 
skirts  to  go  away.  "I  have  always  understood  that  they 
are  happy  there  together.  She  seemed  wrapped  up  in  him 
and  he  in  her." 

"I  guess  they  love  each  other,"  said  the  older  woman, 
"but  it  has  been  his  ruin,  just  the  same.  Silly,  youthful 
romance  doesn't  wear  well,  dear.  No  one  would  receive 
her.  Of  course,  he  could  not  be  received  without  her. 
His  acquaintances  fell  away  from  him  and  he  has  quite 
gone  down  the  hill.  It  was  his  ruin,  sure  enough.  I  hope 
your  Murdoch  will  do  nothing  of  that  kind." 

The  tall  girl  smiled  a  trifle,  although  the  sobs  still  rose 
and  made  her  catch  her  breath.  It  was  the  first  real  smile 
her  face  had  shown  since  Lizette  had  been  watching  her. 
When  she  had  looked  around  the  place  at  first  there  had 
been  an  eager,  interested  look,  a  pleased  look,  as  she  saw 
the  place  the  man  she  loved  had  lived  in  for  so  long,  but 
this  was  the  first  real  smile.  It  was  not  a  smile  of  happi 
ness.  It  was  a  smile  of  confidence. 

"John  Murdoch  will  do  nothing  of  that  sort,"  she  said. 
"He  is  too  true  a  man  to  love  a  woman  who  is  not  worthy 
of  his  love.  I  am  sure  of  that.  Certain.  He  is  too  true 
a  man  to  marry  any  but  a  true  woman.  I  shall  get  over 
my  distress  some  day,  and  then  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  be 
glad  to  make  his  wife  my  friend.  At  first  I  could  not  bear 
it,  but  by  and  by  I  shall  be  able  to,  and  I  know  that  the 
woman  whom  he  finds  good  enough  to  marry  will  be  good 
enough  to  be  my  friend." 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,"  said  her  aunt.     "I  hope  so." 

She  started  toward  the  door. 

In  a  second  they  had  passed  so  far  that  Lizette,  from 
her  place  behind  the  curtain,  could  not  see  them.  She 
waited  anxiously  to  hear  the  door  close  so  that  she  might 
venture  out.  But  she  heard  the  tall  girl  say: 

"You  go  on,  Auntie.  I  have  dropped  my  handkerchief. 
I  will  overtake  you  in  a  moment." 

And  she  came  back  into  the  room. 

The  handkerchief  was  lying  almost  before  the  picture. 
The  tall  girl  had  not  closed  the  curtains.  She  picked  up 
the  little  square  of  cloth,  and  then  slowly — very  slowly — 


170  LIZETTE. 

closed  the  curtains  over  "Parting."  She  gazed  intently 
at  the  picture  as  the  curtains  shut  on  it.  She  was  not 
crying  now.  After  she  had  closed  the  curtains,  Lizette's 
intense  eyes  saw  her  go  once  around  the  studio  and  touch 
the  chairs  and  table  and  her  desk — Lizette's — with  linger 
ing  fingers,  softly,  as  if  she  said,  good-by.  Again  she 
stopped  in  front  of  the  closed  curtains  which  covered 
'Tarting."  She  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  roses  over  it 
and,  standing  on  her  tip-toes,  reached  up  and  took  one 
quickly.  With  it  in  her  hand  she  gave  a  hasty,  guilty 
glance  around.  All  her  dignity  was  gone  now.  She  took 
the  posy  in  her  arms  and  hugged  it  hungrily.  Her  aunt 
called  from  the  top  of  the  stairway.  The  tall  girl  loosened 
the  buttons  of  her  bodice  and  thrust  the  rose  in,  thorns 
and  all,  and,  closing  the  buttons  as  she  went,  ran  out. 

Lizette  listened  until  she  heard  the  door  close.  Then 
she  went  softly  to  the  window.  She  saw  them  get  into 
their  open  cab  and  drive  away.  She  watched  them  from 
the  window,  with  the  curtains  held  before  her,  screening 
her,  until  the  last  possibility  of  identifying  their  little 
vehicle  in  the  crowd  of  others  on  the  Boulevard  had 
vanished. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWEB. 

In  the  first  excitement  of  their  departure  and  her  release 
from  her  strained  position  behind  the  curtains,  Lizette  did 
not  think  very  deeply  or  very  clearly.  It  was  a  distinct  re 
lief  to  her  to  watch  the  disappearance  of  their  cab  as  it 
became  indistinguishable  among  the  crowd  of  vehicles 
upon  the  old  Boul'  Miche'.  They  had  had  no  right  to  come 
to  the  studio  in  the  first  place,  she  argued.  Was  that  the 
\^ay  of  women  in  that  far  away  New  York,  where  people 
were  so  very  careful  what  they  did?  Of  a  certainty  it  was 
Pudgy's  studio,  and,  of  course,  was  free  to  Pudgy's  friends. 
She  made  this  concession  quickly  in  her  mind.  It  was  al 
most  an  apology  to  Pudgy.  But  this  tall  girl — this  tall  girl 
who  dared  to  love  him — she  had  had  no  right  lo  come.  He 
had  not  invited  her.  One  of  the  visitors  who  had  gone  had 
brought  into  the  studio  a  faint,  sweet  odor  of  violets. 
Lizette  threw  all  the  windows  open  with  sudden  ve 
hemence,  so  that  the  dainty  fragrance  might  be  blown 
away.  The  perfume  of  her  roses  over  "Parting"  was  the 
only  smell  of  flowers  which  had  the  right  to  harbor  there. 

She  walked  about  the  studio.  Lying  by  the  door  was 
something.  The  tall  girl  had  dropped  her  handkerchief 
again.  She  must  have  dropped  it  while  she  was  crowding 
that  stolen  rose  into  her  bodice.  Lizette  stooped  and  al 
most  touched  it  with  her  fingers.  Then  she  straightened 
up,  and,  going  to  the  rack  by  the  new  stove,  took  from  it 
a  pair  of  small,  brass  tongs.  "With  them  she  picked  up  the 
little  square  of  cloth  and  started  with  it  to  put  it  in  the 
stove.  She  did  not  do  it.  The  thought  of  the  distress 
which  had  so  plainly  shown  upon  the  tall  girl's  face  pre 
vented  her.  For  a  moment  she  stood  with,  it,  fluttering 


172  UZETTE. 

white  and  limp  before  the  door  of  the  new  stove.  It 
seemed  so  helpless!  It  was  like  the  tall  girl.  She  was 
helpless,  too.  And  hopeless.  Lizette  did  not  touch  the 
handkerchief  with  her  fingers,  hut  she  gently  let  it  nutter 
from  the  tongs  and  rest  upon  the  mantel  hack  of  the  new 
stove. 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  before  the  fire  and  thought. 
Her  anger  died  away  against  her  will.  Her  emotions  were 
conflicting.  She  tried  to  keep  her  hatred  for  the  tall  girl 
burning  in  her  heart,  but  could  not.  The  memory  of  those 
tears  came  to  her  and  quenched  the  fire  of  anger  in  her 
heart  as  tears,  since  humanity  began  to  shed  them,  have 
quenched  many  fires  of  anger.  She  brought  the  memory 
of  the  tall  girl's  sobs  back  to  her  mind  and  tried  to  dwell 
on  it  in  triumph,  but  she  could  not.  She  tried  to  rejoice 
because  the  tall  girl's  face  had  flushed  and  her  eyes  red 
dened  with  the  weeping,  but  she  could  not.  She  tried  to 
wish  the  tall  girl  ill,  and  could  not.  She  could  only  feel 
sorry  for  her,  very  sorry  for  the  tall  girl.  Indeed,  but  she 
had  cause  to  weep,  that  tall  girl!  She  tried  to  imagine 
herself  in  the  other's  place — to  guess  how  she  would  feel 
if  she  loved  Pudgy  and  Pudgy  loved  the  tall  girl.  It  was 
too  terrible  to  think  of.  It  made  her  choke.  She  reflected 
that  in  a  case  like  that  she  must  most  certainly  go  mad. 
The  tall  girl  was  very  beautiful,  very  beautiful.  There 
could  be  no  more  doubt  of  that  than  that  she  loved  John 
Murdoch.  And  she  loved  him — that  girl  of  grace  and  ele 
gance  and  beauty  loved  him.  Her  face  would  have  re 
vealed  it  to  Lizette,  even  if  her  words  had  not  confessed  it, 
never  dreaming  that  Lizette  was  listening,  to  her  aunt.  But 
John  Murdoch  did  not  love  the  tall  girl.  He  loved  Lizette 
— Lizette,  who  waited  for  him  there  to  welcome  him.  That 
was  strange,  but  it  was  wonderfully  fine.  She  was  beauti 
ful,  and  most  likely  rich.  All  Americans,  it  seemed,  were 
rich,  except  Kentucky.  It  was  most  wonderful  that  Pudgy 
should  love  his  small  Lizette  when  he  could  have  the  tall 
girl  for  the  asking. 

Lizette  did  not  grudge  the  rose  to  her.  At  first  when 
she  had  seen  her  thrust  it  out  of  sight  into  her  bodice,  she 
had  hoped  the  thorns  on  it  would  hurt  her.  Now  she 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  173 

hoped  that  they  would  not.  There  already  was  so  much 
pain  in  that  bosom.  The  tall  girl  had  thought  it  was 
Pudgy's  rose.  Perhaps  it  had  been  in  her  mind  that  he 
himself  had  placed  it  there  above  his  "Parting."  But  it 
was  not  Pudgy's  rose,  because  he  had  not  come  as  yet  to 
claim  it.  He  did  not  even  know  about  the  roses  which 
were  over  "Parting."  It  had  been  Lizette's  rose  which  the 
tall  girl  had  taken  and  placed  within  her  bosom.  She 
would  weep  over  it  when  she  reached  the  room  at  her  hotel 
and  kiss  it.  The  tall  girl  would  kiss  and  mumble  over 
Lizette's  rose.  It  almost  seemed,  as  if  in  common  decency, 
she  ought  to  run  and  tell  her  not  to.  But  that  would  put 
too  great  humiliation  on  her.  Lizette  was  very  sorry  for 
the  tall  girl  when  she  thought  of  that. 

But  the  aunt!  Lizette  had  no  kind  feelings  for  the  aunt. 
She  was  a  most  unpleasant  and  violent  old  woman.  She 
had  spoken  about  Fosdyck.  Lizette  had  heard  of  Fosdyck. 
He  had  been  very  popular  in  the  Quarter.  He  had  not 
been  a  particularly  good  artist,  but  he  had  been  popular 
in  the  Quarter  and  he  had  had  much  money.  Lizette  re 
membered  her  dimly.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman — Fos- 
dyck's  wife — and  the  aunt  had  said  they  loved  each  other. 
But  she  had  also  said  that  in  marrying  her  Fosdyck  had 
married  ruin.  If  they  loved  each  other,  why  had  the  mar 
riage  ruined  Fosdyck?  She  wondered  why. 

Then  there  came  to  her  an  .awful  thought.  Would 
Pudgy,  if  he  married  her — Lizette — and  took  her  back  to 
New  York  City  with  him,  be  ruined  by  it  as  Fosdyck  had 
been  by  his  marriage?  Was  it  possible  that  she — Lizette — 
could  ruin  Pudgy?  It  had  ruined  Fosdyck.  Could  it  also 
ruin  Pudgy?  Was  New  York  such  a  cold  and  cruel  place 
as  that?  A  new  thought  grew  within  her  anci  it  made  her 
shiver  as  with  cold.  Was  this  strange  talk  of  the  two 
women  sent  to  her  in  answer  to  her  prayer?  A-h-h-h!  She 
shuddered.  The  dread  was  in  her  which  comes  to  supersti 
tious  people  when  they  think  they  see  a  sign.  Her  eyes 
dilated  and  she  felt  a  chilling  thrill  as  if  the  socket  of  her 
heart  were  emptying.  She  sank  with  involuntarily 
loosened  muscles  to  the  floor  and  stared  before  her  as  if 
she  saw  some  terror  in  the  air. 


174  LIZETTE. 

That  night  at  the  Domperille,  when  Lizette  had  gently 
linked  her  arm  and  life  to  Murdoch's,  she  had  had  no 
knowledge  of  wrong-doing.  But  now— deep  down  in  her 
heart — she  knew.  It  was  that  that  made  this  new  thought 
dreadful  to  her.  It  was  that  that  made  the  superstition 
that  this  talk  of  the  old  woman's  might  be  an  awful  an 
swer  to  her  prayer,  grow  coldly,  like  a  tree  of  ice,  within 
her  breast.  Those  days,  when  she  had  read  the  Bible  to 
Kentucky  and  talked  to  him  about  it,  she  had,  without 
realization,  learned  just  enough  so  that  now  the  twisted 
thoughts  came  back  to  her  with  many  misinterpretations 
and  dread  meanings.  Her  other  reading  with  Murdoch, 
when  she  had  struggled  with  the  English  to  please  him  and 
to  understand  him,  had  taught  her  more;  and  in  these 
things,  too,  she  saw  new  meanings — dreadful  meanings — 
as  she  huddled  on  the  floor  in  horror  at  the  prospect  which 
opened  now  before  her  dazed  and  startled  mind.  When 
once  the  knowledge  had  begun  to  grow,  it  had  gathered 
as  a  rolling  snowball  gathers,  and  now,  with  these  new  and 
awful  misinterpretations  of  it,  it  threatened  to  overwhelm 
her.  Often  painful  thoughts  had  come  to  her,  but  she 
had  pushed  them  back,  unwilling  to  give  them  lodgment 
in  her  mind.  Who  has  not  struggled  to  put  away  unpleas 
ant  truths?  But  now  they  rushed  upon  her  like  a  flood. 
The  sluiceway  had  been  opened  by  what  the  aunt  had  said, 
and  they  rushed  through  it  in  a  flood.  She  tried  to  stop 
their  coming,  but  she  could  not.  She  hurried,  trembling, 
about  the  studio,  doing  some  of  those  small  things  which 
had  ever  been  absorbing  and  brought  such  pleasure  to  her, 
but  they  did  not  absorb  or  bring  pleasure  to  her  now.  She 
went  over  into  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  but  the 
playing  children  could  not  turn  the  course  of  her  re 
flections. 

She  went  back  to  the  old  studio  and  reread  Murdoch's 
letter,  that  one  which  said  so  much  on  two  small  sheets 
of  paper.  But  its  sweetness  was  embittered.  Perhaps  in 
opening  to  her  the  door  of  happiness  he  might  be  closing 
it  upon  himself.  Perhaps  that  was  what  the  Virgin  had 
meant  to  warn  her  of  in  the  visit  of  the  women  to  the 
studio.  Perhaps  her  prayers  for  guidance  had  been  an- 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  175 

swered  with  an  answer  that  bade  her  rend  her  life  in  twain, 
destroy  it,  trample  on  the  joy  of  it,  that  she  might  save 
him  from  himself.  Ever  as  she  read  its  words — those 
words  so  dear  to  her — that  woman's  voice,  which  said  that 
Fosdyck  was  a  ruined  man  and  hoped  that  Murdoch  would 
not  tempt  like  certainty  of  ruin,  troubled  her. 

"I  hope  he  has  not  become  entangled  with  some  one 
who  will  harm  him — some  one  who  will  drag  him  down," 
the  aunt  had  said. 

Would  it  harm  him?  Would  it  drag  him  down  to  take 
her  back  with  him  to  New  York  City?  Had  she  been  so 
very  wicked  in  her  love  for  him  that  that  very  love  would 
compass  his  destruction?  Was  this  hint  an  answer  from 
the  Virgin? 

She  could  not  put  the  thoughts  away  from  her.  They 
were  persistent  in  their  clamor  to  be  heard.  Oh,  why  had 
that  old  woman  come  to  make  her  suffer  so?  Slowly,  a 
conviction  was  growing  in  her  mind,  a  thought  so  grim 
and  terrible  that  it  made  her  crouch  in  agony. 

She  must  not  ruin  Pudgy. 

If  it  were  possible  that  harm  should  come  to  him 
through  taking  her  to  New  York  City,  she  must  never  go. 
It  were  better,  it  were  happier  that  she  should  die  than 
that  she  should  take  ruin  to  her  Pudgy.  It  was  plain  that 
marriage  did  not  save  men  from  such  ruin,  for  the  aunt 
had  said  that  Fosdyck  had  been  ruined,  although  he  loved 
his  wife  and  she  loved  him,  and  they  were  married  hard 
and  fast  as  laws  of  Church  and  State  could  bind  them.  She 
must  think  about  this  awful  matter.  She  must  find  out 
what  to  do.  Whatever  that  might  be,  it  must  not  be  that 
she  should  take  the  ruin  to  her  Pudgy.  Not  if  it  tore  her 
heart  from  out  her  bosom  and  left  it,  rent  and  bleeding, 
in  a  wilderness  of  loneliness.  She  must  think.  She  must 
take  counsel.  Oh,  how  she  wished  for  old  Kentucky  at 
this  crisis! 

She  quickly  dressed  and  went  to  Notre  Dame  again. 
Again  she  knelt  there  on  the  stones.  Again  she  lifted  up 
her  heart  in  supplication  to  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Her  pray 
ers  were  still  for  Pudgy,  but  their  point  of  plea  was 
changed.  She  did  not  ask  the  Holy  Virgin  to  guard  him 


176  LIZETTE. 

from  the  dangers  of  the  sea.  She  begged  to  know  if,  in 
her  own,  sweet,  loving  self,  a  greater  danger  lurked  than 
in  the  waves.  This  prayer  was  not  of  thanks,  but  suppli 
cation.  She  begged  for  definite  interpretation.  She  asked 
the  Virgin  how  she  might  deport  herself  to  keep  all  trou 
ble  from  her  Pudgy.  She  begged  Christ's  holy  mother  to 
tell  her  if,  by  marrying  him  and  going  back  with  him,  she 
should  take  ruin  to  him.  The  wording  of  that  other 
prayer  was  in  her  memory — that  happy  prayer,  poured  out 
amidst  the  sweet  excitement  of  the  coming  of  his  letter, 
that  prayer  which  she  had  tried  to  get  the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals  to  say  also  for  him. 

Was  it  possible,  she  asked,  that  the  shelter  which  he 
needed  was  shelter  from  her  love?  What  a  bitter,  biting 
thought! 

She  had  begged  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  show  her  how  to 
ever  think  of  him  and  not  think  of  herself.  Would  the 
truest  thought  of  him,  the  truest  self-forgetfulness,  be  that 
which  bade  her  go  away  from  him,  so  that  by  cleaving  to 
him  she  might  not  shame  and  injure  him  before  the 
world? 

She  had  begged  of  her  that  sorrows,  if  they  fell,  might 
fall  on  her  and  not  on  him.  Was  it  true  that  by  accepting 
this  supremest  of  all  sorrows — separation — she  might  most 
surely  save  him  sadness  in  the  days  to  come?  She  had 
begged  to  be  cast  out  and  hated  if  she  ever,  in  the  slightest, 
wronged  or  hurt  him.  Was  it  possible  that  by  going  to 
America  with  him  as  his  wife  she  would  be  most  deeply 
wronging  him,  most  irretrievably  doing  him  an  injury? 
Had  the  words  of  the  old  woman  been  spoken  in  her  hear 
ing  as  a  warning  of  this  possibility?  She  had  begged  that 
death  might  come  while  joy  so  great  and  sweet  was  in  her 
if,  by  her  living,  wrong  or  harm  should  come  to  him.  Was 
it  true  that  it  were  better  for  him  that  she  died  before  he 
came  to  claim  her  as  his  wife?  Was  it  true  that  if  they 
married  it  might  spoil  his  life  across  the  sea?  Had  the 
Virgin  told  her  this  by  sending  the  old  woman? 

As  she  knelt  the  great  sobs  shook  her  so  that  those  who 
were  nearby  looked  on  and  pitied  her.  She  did  not  know 
that  they  were  looking.  The  whole  world's  gaze  would  not 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  177 

have  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts.  She  was  too 
deeply  weighted  by  her  agony  of  fear  that  through  her  love 
for  Murdoch  she  should  harm  him. 

So  she  knelt  and  prayed  and  asked  these  questions  of 
the  Virgin  many  times.  But  there  came  no  answer  to  her. 

In  that  dim  religion  which  she  had  built  from  shreds 
and  fragments  of  the  truth  was  the  belief  that  answer  to 
the  praying  soul  in  real  distress  was  likely  to  come  quick 
and  straight  from  Heaven. 

But  no  such  answer  came  to  her. 

She  told  the  Blessed  Virgin  what  her  case  was,  and  con 
fided  in  her  with  a  sweet  simplicity  that  if  she  must  go 
away  and  leave  her  Pudgy  for  his  own  salvation,  then  the 
going  must  be  now,  that  it  was  in  her  heart  that  if  she 
waited  until  after  he  had  come  to  her,  her  strength  would 
surely  fail. 

Imploring,  in  an  agony,  she  asked  an  answer,  but  none 
came. 

What  she  really  expected,  whether  she  looked  for  a  ma 
terial  demonstration,  or  some  soul-convincing  inward  thrill, 
unseen,  unheard,  she  did  not  know  herself.  But  nothing 
came. 

Finally,  weeping  noiselessly  and  with  many  little  catch- 
ings  of  the  breath,  she  started  to  go  out.  In  the  very  en 
trance  to  the  cathedral,  where  the  gloom  of  the  great  pil 
lars  lay  blackest  on  the  stones,  she  met  the  young  man  who 
was  so  often  at  the  shop  of  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals. 

He  had  given  up  the  study  of  art  and  earned  that  part  of 
his  living  which  was  not  provided  by  the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals  by  copying  work  in  the  libraries.  But  he  still 
posed  as  a  divinity  student.  In  his  dress  he  imitated  the 
garb  of  the  Church  and  he  was  frequently  to  be  seen  about 
the  great  churches,  the  ones  most  frequently  visited  by 
sight-seeing  strangers. 

Lizette  knew  this  young  man  through  seeing  him  so 
often  in  the  shop  of  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals.  At 
once  the  thought  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  help  her. 
She  hardly  dared  to  go  to  a  regular  priest  with  her  tragedy, 
so  great  to  her,  but  so  small  in  a  world  of  tragedies.  But 
this  student!  Surely,  he  could  help  her;  at  least,  he  could 


178  LIZETTE. 

advise  where  to  seek  help.  She  turned  the  matter  over 
in  her  mind  as  she  followed  him  along  the  street,  and  when 
he  paused,  leaning  on  the  wall  that  runs  alongside  the 
river,  she  approached  timidly  and  addressed  him.  He 
bowed  conventionally. 

"Father,  will  you  help  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  not  a  priest,"  he  answered,  adding,  to  keep  up  the 
pretence  which  had  become  a  habit  with  him,  "though  I 
hope  to  become  one.  But  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  be  of 
help  to  you  if  I  can.  Only,  if  it  is  confession  which  you 
wish  to  make,  the  church  would  be  a  better  place  and  there 
are  always  priests  there  waiting!" 

"No,  not  confession,"  said  the  small  one,  "but  I  have 
much  to  ask." 

"Go  on." 

She  did  not  tell  him  who  she  was,  but  poured  her  story 
out  in  broken  sentences  and  struggling  words.  He  really 
did  not  listen  closely.  Much  of  what  she  said  was  almost 
incoherent.  Much  more  he  did  not  understand,  because 
she  did  not  stop  to  detail  surrounding  circumstances.  But 
finally,  he  gathered  enough  of  what  she  meant  to  under 
stand  in  part  the  worry  of  her  heart.  Still,  he  did  not  un 
derstand  who  it  was  that  she  would  save  from  harm.  He 
did  not  recognize  her  yet.  He  merely  thought  that  she 
was  a  sentimental,  worried  French  girl,  almost  hysterical. 
Such  mental  mix-ups  are  not  rare.  She  did  not  tell  him  of 
the  visit  of  the  women.  She  did  not  tell  him  that  she 
feared  their  visit  came  in  answer  to  her  prayers. 

"Your  sin  has  been  no  greater  than  his  sin,"  he  said, 
when  she  paused  at  the  end  of  her  narrative. 

"But  yes,"  Lizette  broke  in  in  protest  "But  yes,  it  has. 
I  went  to  him  without  the  asking,  because  from  the  very 
moment  of  my  first  seeing  him  I  loved  him.  And  then,  I 
did  not  know  that  it  was  sin." 

"He  knew,"  the  other  said.  "So,  at  least,  your  sin  has 
not  been  greater  than  his  own." 

"He  has  not  sinned,"  she  said,  almost  in  anger.  "The 
sin  is  mine,  I  tell  you.  It  is  mine!" 

"Well,  have  it  so,"  the  young  man  said,  smiling.  "It  is 
evident  I  cannot  change  you  but  the  fact  remains," 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  179 

"He  has  not  sinned,"  Lizette  repeated,  "except  through 
me." 

"Nor  you  except  through  him." 

"Ah,  yes!"  Lizette  said,  softly.  "It  was  I  who  went  to 
him.  He  did  not  seek  me  out  and  ask  me  to  do  wrong. 
The  sin  is  mine." 

"It  does  not  matter,"  said  the  man,  now  looking  at 
Lizette  more  closely.  This  was  a  new  experience.  He  had 
not  met  before  in  his  experience  any  person  who  so  per 
sisted  in  bearing  burdens  which  even  strangers  thought 
might  be  carried  by  the  shoulders  of  another.  It  was  gen 
erally  the  other  way.  Most  persons  wished  to  shift  their 
loads  for  other  backs  to  bend  beneath.  He  began  to  be 
interested. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  your  road  is  clear 
before  you.  You  say  he  comes  to  marry  you.  Be  content. 
The  past  is  passed.  If,  in  the  future,  after  this  marriage 
has  taken  place,  you  so  live  as  to  give  pleasure  to  God; 
if  you  confess  your  sins  and  ask  forgiveness  of  them;  if 
you  give  in  charity  of  what  you  have  and  do  allotted  pen 
ance,  all  will  be  well  with  you." 

"It  is  not  for  that  I  ask,"  she  said. 

"For  what,  then?"  asked  the  student,  looking  closely  at 
her  face  again  and  trying  to  remember  who  she  was. 

"It  is  not  that  all  may  be  well  with  me,  but  that  all  may 
be  well  with  him  that  I  would  have  advice.  I  begged 
the  Blessed  Virgin  that  sorrows,  if  they  fell,  might  fall  on 
me.  I  wish  it.  It  is  right.  The  sin  is  mine,  not  his." 

"You  must  love  much,"  he  said,  still  trying  to  remem 
ber. 

"I  do." 

"Does  he?" 

As  he  asked  this  question,  there  was  a  keen,  unpleasant 
twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  man.  At  last  he  had 
placed  her.  Her  face  had  been  familiar,  and  at  length  he 
recognized  her  as  the  girl  who  had  so  often  been  with  the 
man  who  once  had  ducked  him  in  the  Seine.  A  plan  began 
to  form  there  in  his  mind  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  but  he 
did  not  broach  it  yet.  He  went  on  with  the  religious  dia 
logue.  It  would  be  most  necessary  for  his  plan's  fruition 


180  UZETTE. 

that  she  should  not  know  he  had  a  plan  or  any  reason  for 
one.  He  was  not  the  man  to  strike  out  openly.  He  waited 
for  her  answer  to  his  question.  He  really  wanted  to  know 
its  answer  now,  and  the  dialogue  had  assumed  an  interest 
personal  to  him.  He  asked  again: 

"Does  he?" 

"He  does.  I  know  he  does/'  she  answered,  with  a  proud 
flicker  of  a  smile  upon  her  anxious  face. 

The  student  was  clever. 

"Then  if  you  fled  from  him  would  not  that  give  to  him 
the  greatest  of  all  sorrows?" 

He  waited  for  her  answer.  He  was  anxious  to  have  her 
confirm  the  theory  in  his  mind. 

She  hesitated.  She  had  thought  of  this.  But  as  she 
paused  a  glimmering  thought  of  final  sacrifice  came  to  her 
mind — of  sacrifice  so  great  that  it  made  her  physically 
cold  to  think  of  it.  There  was  that  other  girl!  Perhaps 
her  Pudgy  would  be  happier  at  last  with  that  other  girl 
who  loved  him  and  who  had  not  sinned.  Surely,  he  would 
suffer  first,  but  it  might  be  better  for  him  in  the  end.  She 
had  not  sinned!  That  tall  girl  had  not  sinned! 

He  waited  while  she  thought,  and  finally  asked  her 
again: 

"If  you  fled  from  him,  would  it  not  give  to  him  the 
greatest  of  all  sorrows?"  He  added  quickly,  in  consonance 
with  his  rapidly-forming  plan:  "Not  that  it  is  not  well  for 
us  to  suffer,  sometimes." 

"It  might,"  she  said.    "It  would—" 

The  student  was  eager  now,  and  interrupted.  Here  was 
his  chance  to  hurt  the  man  who  had  forced  humiliation  on 
him.  He  did  not  think  so  far  as  to  believe  that  he  could 
permanently  injure  Murdoch,  for  he  had  not  so  much  faith 
in  woman's  nature  as  to  believe  that  she  would  really  run 
away  from  him  forever,  even  if  she  thought  that  doing  it 
would  save  his  soul.  But  the  thought  was  in  his  mind 
that  he  might  make  her  go  away  for  a  small  time  and  worry 
Murdoch.  It  was  a  great  idea  and  must  be  carefully  car 
ried  out  or  it  would  fail.  When  he  spoke  it  was  slowly  and 
with  caution.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  closely  on  her  face 
so  that  he  could  see  the  effect  of  what  he  said.  He  was  no 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  181 

longer  in  a  hurry  for  his  dinner.  He  felt  a  sort  of  triumph 
as  his  plan  was  born.  It  was  a  clever  plan,  for  if  Murdoch 
really  loved  the  little  one  it  would  make  him  suffer  worse 
than  he  had  suffered  when  he  had  been  ducked  that  day, 
and  the  suffering  would  last  longer. 

"You  have  prayed  and  asked  the  Virgin?"  he  questioned 
again. 

"I  have  asked  and  not  been  answered/'  said  Lizette,  "un 
less » 

She  told  him  of  the  visit  and  the  gossip  of  the  women, 
and  asked  if  it  might  properly  be  taken  for  an  answer  to 
her  prayers. 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  is  coming  from  America." 

"When  will  he  be  here?" 

"Within  a  week,  I  think,  or  less.     I  cannot  tell,  exactly." 

The  student  smiled  a  most  unpleasant  smile.  He  felt 
it  on  his  face  and,  fearing  that  she  would  see  the  pleasure 
which  he  felt  in  anticipation  at  prospect  of  doing  harm  to 
Murdoch,  he  hid  it  with  his  hand. 

"Your  belief  in  the  Holy  Virgin  is  absolute?"  he  in 
quired,  anxious  to  be  certain  that  his  plan  would  carry 
through  when  once  he  launched  it. 

"Of  a  certainty,"  replied  Lizette,  "but  she  has  not  an 
swered,  unless  the  visit  of  the  women  and  their  talking 
was  the  answer.  Was  it?  Do  you  think  it  was?" 

"Who  knows?"  he  said,  with  calm  deliberation.  He 
must  make  her  think  it  might  be,  but  he  must  leave  the 
matter  open  to  some  question  in  order  that  she  would  want 
to  ask  again  in  other  circumstances  and  so  carry  out  his 
plan. 

"There  is  a  place — a  shrine,"  he  said,  presently,  "where 
the  Virgin  especially  replies  to  many  prayers.  I  mean  at 
Lourdes.  Have  you  heard  of  it?" 

Lizette  looked  up  with  eagerness.  She  had  not  thought 
of  that.  All  Paris  knows  about  the  yearly  pilgrimage  to 
Lourdes  and  she  had  known  of  it;  had  even  seen  the  pil 
grims  miserably  clustered  around  the  railway  station  once 
while  they  waited  for  the  trains  to  take  them  to  the  south 
of  France  to  pray.  It  seemed  almost  like  an  inspiration 


182  LIZETTE. 

to  her.  Surely,  that  was  the  thing  to  do.  The  Virgin, 
who  did  not  answer  when  she  prayed  at  ease  in  the  ca 
thedral,  might  listen  to  her  if  she  made  the  pilgrimage. 

The  young  man  smiled  most  unpleasantly.  If  Lizettc 
had  seen  him  when  he  was  a  student  there,  at  Julian's, 
and  had  tried  to  edge  around  so  that  he  might  kick  the 
head  of  the  prostrate  student  who  had  ducked  him,  she 
would  have  seen  how  like  his  smile  was  now  to  that  he  had 
worn  then.  A  similar  plan  was  in  his  mind.  Again  he 
planned  to  play  a  coward's  part  and  strike  Murdoch  when 
he  could  offer  no  defense.  But  this  time  there  was  not  a 
roomful  of  young  men,  who  loved  fair  play,  to  watch  him 
and  cry  shame.  He  told  her  of  the  pilgrimage,  and  held 
great  hopes  out  to  her.  He  said  that  he  understood  the 
situation  now,  and  realized  that  she  was  doing  right  to 
hesitate.  He  talked  cleverly  and  well.  He  found  out  when 
the  absent  one  was  coming  back  and  felt  a  pleasure  in  his 
heart,  because  the  annual  pilgrimage  began  upon  the  mor 
row,  and,  by  working  on  her  feelings,  he  could  get  her  off 
on  it  before  Murdoch  came  to  claim  her. 

The  plan  appealed  to  her.  It  seemed  but  right  that  she 
should  make  a  pilgrimage.  It  was  a  pilgrimage  for  Pudgy, 
whom  she  loved.  She  listened  to  the  student,  and  deter 
mined  to  follow  his  advice.  He  was  very  kind,  and  even 
secured  for  her  a  ticket  for  one  of  the  official  trains  which 
started  on  the  morrow. 

With  streaming  eyes  she  wrote  a  little  note  to  Murdoch, 
and  placed  it  on  the  mantel  back  of  the  new  stove,  where 
he  would  surely  see  it.  It  was  the  last  of  many,  for  many 
were  torn  up  before  she  felt  that  she  had  said  all  that  she 
wished  to  say  and  yet  had  told  him  not  too  much,  so  that 
he  would  know  on  what  journey  she  had  gone  and,  follow 
ing,  overset  her  plans,  which  she  had  made  for  his  good, 
not  for  hers. 

It  was  a  tear-stained ,  pitiful  confession,  indefinite 
in  what  it  said.  And  so  she  left  it  where,  should  her 
love  appear  before  she  should  come  back,  or  should  the 
Holy  Virgin  tell  her  never  to  return,  Murdoch  would  find 
it  and  would  know.  She  packed  some  necessaries  in  a  little 
trunk.  She  placed  her  dearest  treasure — that  last  letter 


LIZETTE  SEEKS  AN  ANSWER.  183 

from  John  Murdoch — in  her  bosom,  and,  in  the  early 
morning  of  the  day  before  Murdoch  and  Kentucky  eagerly 
arrived  in  Paris,  she  began  that  pitiful  journey  with  the 
halt  and  lame,  the  palsied  and  the  blind,  to  Lourdes. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

GONE. 

The  ship  neared  the  end  of  its  journey.  Kentucky  be 
came  possessed  of  a  mighty  calm.  He  was  satisfied.  Big 
soul  that  was  his!  He  had  accomplished  his  end.  Through 
his  efforts  the  two  whom  he  knew  should  be  together,  were 
to  be  reunited,  and  he  was  satisfied.  His  hard  rubs  against 
the  world  had,  in  their  friction,  rubbed  his  selfishness 
away.  He  had  filled  the  emptiness  of  the  life  whose  early 
fulness  lay  buried  in  the  south  of  France,  with  the  interests 
of  these  two,  for  whose  happiness  he  gladly  would  have 
sacrificed  his  own. 

Murdoch  was  restless. 

Presently  they  were  within  a  few  hours  of  Liverpool. 
They  were  in  the  bow  upon  the  anchor  deck  and  stood  in 
silence  peering  into  the  fog.  How  little  they  dreamed  of 
the  depth  of  that  fog,  less  palpable  but  more  terrifying, 
which  would  soon  surround  and  baffle  them,  in  whose  som 
bre  mysteries  was  somewhere  hidden  the  one  to  whom  they 
hastened  with  such  joy  and  happy  plans.  There  were 
sounds  of  other  traffic  in  the  channel,  but  there  was  little 
sight  of  it,  so  dense  was  the  all-obscuring  mist.  The  toot 
ing  of  small  horns  and  the  occasional  firing  of  a  gun 
gave  the  navigators  news  of  where  other  craft  were  plying, 
and  the  great  steamship  progressed  slowly,  feeling  her  way 
as  a  frightened  boy  might  in  a  dark  and  fearsome  cellar. 

They  landed  early  in  the  morning  and  hurried  through 
the  customs  house  formalities,  and  soon  were  on  their  way 
to  London  in  a  train  which  rushed  though  the  peaceful, 
rain-wet  English  countryside  with  gratifying  speed.  In 
London  they  drove  from  Waterloo  to  Victoria  station  in  a 
cab,  whose  driver  was  promised  extra  payment  if  he  got 


GONE.  185 

them  there  in  time  to  catch  the  regular  eleven  o'clock  ex 
press  for  Dover.  There  they  took  the  channel  boat  for 
Calais.  In  the  train,  as  they  whirled  along  through  the 
beautiful  English  country,  they  talked  of  her.  On  the 
dingy  Channel  boat  they  talked  of  her.  On  the  train 
again,  from  Calais  to  Paris,  they  spoke  only  of  Lizette. 

When  the  train  began  to  pass  through  the  environs  of 
the  French  capital  their  conversation  ceased.  Each  was 
eager  for  the  moment  when  they  should  arrive  in  Paris. 
Murdoch  did  not  think  that  Lizette  would  be  at  the  rail 
road  station  to  meet  them.  He  believed  that  she  would 
think  as  he  did,  that  the  dear  old  studio,  where  there 
would  be  no  curious  ones  to  look  and  wonder,  would  be  a 
better  place  to  meet.  Kentucky  smiled  and  offered  wagers 
that  she  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  wait. 

Murdoch  was  right.  Lizette  was  not  waiting  at  the 
station. 

Again  they  rushed  their  luggage  through  the  customs  as 
rapidly  as  they  could,  and  had  it  loaded  on  a  cab.  They 
gave  the  driver  the  address  and  started  gayly  for  the 
studio  which  overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg. 
Kentucky  told  that  driver  in  strangely  fluent  French  that 
there  was  much  cause  for  haste.  He  hastened. 

As  they  whirled  through  the  streets  with  the  reckless 
ness  that  comes  to  Parisian  drivers  because  they  and  not 
pedestrians  have  the  right  of  way,  they  did  not  speak. 
The  tears  were  in  John  Murdoch's  eyes  as  they  caught  wel 
come,  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  old  places  which  had  been 
so  familiar  to  him  in  past  days.  Each  had  a  memory  of 
her  to  offer  to  him  as  he  passed.  The  Cafe  de  la  Paix — 
how  many  times  had  they  idly  sipped  their  coffee  there  as 
the  crowds  passed,  almost,  it  seemed,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  amusing  them?  The  great  fountain  at  the  head  of  the 
Boul'  Miche'  recalled  that  first  night  in  Paris  when  he 
had  driven  over  to  the  Quarter  with  Fitzpatrick  and  the 
French  hat  merchant.  Kentucky  gripped  his  hand.  They 
saw  ona  or  two  students  whom  Murdoch  recognized  and 
who  waved  their  hands  at  Kentucky,  but  there  must  have 
been  some  change  in  Murdoch,  for  they  did  not  seem  to 
know  him.  They  passed  the  Domperille.  Murdoch 


186  LIZETTE. 

strained  his  eyes  to  see  into  the  place,  tut  it  was  too  early 
in  the  day.  It  was  dull  and  unattractive. 

Another  moment  and  they  were  within  sight  of  the  old 
building.  The  trees  were  swaying  in  the  dear  old  Gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg,  the  birds  were  twittering  in  them,  the 
children  were  at  their  play  in  them  with  softened  shouts. 
Nowhere  was  there  any  visible  change  and  Murdoch's  heart 
went  out  to  everything  and  everyone  he  saw.  The  very 
griminess  of  the  old  studio  building  was  dear  to  him.  Dingy, 
mansard-roofed,  it  leaned  slightly  backward  as  if  to  steady 
itself  against  the  jarring  of  the  great  steam  trams  which 
went  puffing  noisily  before  it.  They  were  new  to  Mur 
doch.  The  two  men  peered  up  at  the  window  near  that  sky 
light,  which  had  given  Murdoch  such  fine  north  light  for 
his  painting  in  the  old  days.  They  looked  eagerly  at  the 
street  door.  But  in  neither  was  that  bright,  expectant  and 
expected  face  looking  out  for  them.  Murdoch  was  disap 
pointed.  His  first  impulse  was  to  jump  from  the  cab  and 
run  upstairs  to  meet  Lizette  and  greet  her,  but  he  thought 
that  that  would  be  unfair.  Their  meeting  could  not  be  too 
sacred  to  be  shared  by  Kentucky,  who  had  crossed  the 
ocean  to  bring  him  to  his  love.  He  waited  and  paid  the 
cabman  and  helped  pull  the  luggage  off  the  cab,  although 
every  nerve  was  tingling,  every  muscle  tense  to  hurry  up 
the  stairs  and  find  Lizette.  The  withered  old  concierge 
came  out  and  greeted  Murdoch  with  an  enthusiasm  which 
might  have  fitted  a  mother's  joy  at  a  long-absent  son's 
home-coming.  It  delayed  Murdoch  five  seconds,  and 
almost  exasperated  him. 

He  bounded  up  the  stairs,  two  at  a  time,  with  Ken 
tucky's  ungainly  long  legs  taking  great  leaps  behind  him. 
He  dashed  into  the  studio  with  her  name  on  his  lips.  There 
was  no  reply,  but  the  first  thing  that  caught  his  eye  was 
the  cheerful  glow  of  the  fire  in  the  new  stove.  That 
meant  that  she  was  waiting  for  him,  surely.  He  hurried 
through  the  other  rooms.  She  was  not  in  them.  He 
thought  that  she  might  have  hidden  in  a  closet  to  make  him 
search,  and  he  opened  each  closed  door,  but  nowhere  could 
he  find  her.  He  reasoned  that  she  had  gone  to  the  station, 
but  had  missed  them  and  would  hurry  back  distressed. 


GONE.  187 

Kentucky  was  dumfounded.  They  sat  down  and  gazed 
at  each  other  in  bitter  disappointment.  Kentucky  had 
just  risen  to  go  to  the  concierge  when  the  old  woman 
poked  her  grizzled  head  into  the  room,  and  said: 

"You  see  I  had  the  fire  burning  brightly  in  the  ne\v 
stove.  She  told  me  that  I  must  closely  look  to  that.  There 
is  also  a  telegram  for  Madame  upon  the  mantel  shelf.  It 
came  yesterday,  after  Madame  went  away." 

"Went  away! — Yesterday!" — exclaimed  the  two  men  in 
chorus. 

"Yes.  Did  you  not  expect  to  find  her  gone?  She 
seemed  to  feel  most  sorrowful  about  the  going.  She 
kissed  me  as  she  said  adieu,  and  told  me  that  I  must  keep 
the  fire  burning  in  the  new  stove  so  that  its  warmth  might 
welcome  you.  She  kissed  me  as  she  said  adieu." 

The  old  woman  plumed  herself  at  this,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  great  feather  in  her  cap. 

"She  was  most  anxious  about  that  fire  in  the  new  stove," 
she  went  on,  glancing  at  the  red  gleam  of  its  isinglass.  "She 
wept,  mostly,  but  she  told  me  that  she  had  had  a  telegram 
from  you  from  far  away  America,  bidding  her  to  have  a 
bright  fire  there  when  you  should  come,  and  she  charged 
me  to  keep  it  burning.  It  seemed  to  me  a  most  strange 
thing  to  send  a  message  so  great  a  way  about,  but  one  can 
never  tell.  You  see,  I  kept  it  burning  with  the  great 
brilliance." 

She  pointed  proudly  to  the  fire  of  welcome.  So  Lizette's 
hands  had  not  been  those  to  keep  it  burning,  after  all. 

"When  the  second  telegram  came,  I  brought  it  up,"  she 
went  on,  busily,  "hoping  that  Madame  might  not  yet  have 
made  her  departure.  But  the  studio  was  empty.  I  knew 
that  Madame  might  stop  at  the  shop  of  the  woman  who 
sells  coals,  so  I  ran  after  her.  The  shop  was  closed.  There 
is  a  young  priest  in  whom  the  old  woman  who  sells  coais 
takes  much  interest — you  understand?  She  takes  almost 
as  much  of  interest  in  him  as  if  he  were  her  son.  You 
understand?  Her  son?  La  la!  Her  son.  But,  of 
course,  that  could  not  be.  Oh,  no.  For  the  woman  who 
sells  coals  has  never  had  a  husband,  so  she  could  not  have 
a  son.  You  understand?  Still,  she  takes  much  interest 


188  LIZETTE. 

in  the  young  priest  and  he  in  her.  Well,  it  seemed  that 
the  young  man  was  at  the  gate  assisting  those  who  make 
the  holy  pilgrimage  to  Lourdes.  The  old  woman  who  sells 
coais  was  with  him  there.  The  shop  was  closed,  so,  of 
course,  Madame  was  not  there.  So  I  brought  the  telegram 
back  here  and  left  it  where  you  found  it. 

"Madame  told  me  before  she  went  that  she  had  arranged 
everything  for  you.  After  I  had  helped  the  cabman  take 
her  box  down  the  stairs,  she  came  back  again  and  stayed 
here  such  a  time  that  I  came  up  to  see  if  there  was  not 
some  way  in  which  I  could  be  of  service,  She  was  on  her 
knees,  over  there  in  front  of  the  big  picture.  I  thought  at 
first  that  she  was  praying,  but  then  I  thought  that,  of 
course,  she  could  not  be  praying  to  a  picture,  and  then  I 
entered  and  asked  her  if  she  was  looking  for  something  that 
she  had  lost.  She  was  weeping  aond  told  me  that  she 
feared  she  had  lost  the  greatest  thing  that  she  had  ever 
owned,  but  told  me  that  I  could  not  help  her  find  it.  She 
said  that  only  the  Holy  Virgin  could  tell  her  where  and 
how  to  find  it,  which  I  thought  was  most  strange  talk. 
She  told  me  to  go  away  and  to  wait  for  her  outside.  I 
started,  and  as  I  went  out  I  saw  that  she  was  again  on  her 
knees,  looking  for  that  something  which  she  had  lost  and 
which  she  told  me  that  I  could  not  help  her  find.  I  am 
old,  I  know,  but  I  would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  got 
down  to  help  her  look,  for  of  a  certainty  I  am  very  fond 
of  little  Madame.  But  she  bade  me  go,  and  so  I  went. 

"Finally,  when,  almost  an  hour  afterward,  she  came 
down  the  stairs,  I  asked  her  if  she  had  found  that  thing 
which  she  had  lost.  She  said  she  had  not  found  it,  and 
I  told  her  that  if  she  would  tell  me  what  it  was  I  would 
make  the  most  careful  search  for  it  while  she  was  gone,  so 
that  I  might  have  it  waiting  for  her  when  she  came  back. 

"  'No/  she  said  to  me,  'you  cannot  find  it.  It  is  useless 
for  you  to  make  the  search.  I  have  left  it  behind  me  in 
the  dear  old  studio,  and  if  I  ever  come  "back  to  the  studio 
I  know  that  it  will  be  there  waiting  for  me.  But  before  I 
can  search  for  it  again  the  Holy  Virgin  must  tell  me  that 
I  have  the  right  to  it/ 

"This  was  most  strange  talk  and  I  did  not  understand 


GONE.  189 

what  she  meant  by  it,  but  when  I  asked  her  to  explain  how 
I  could  help  her  in  her  search,  she  only  wept  the  more.  She 
drove  away,  but  in  a  few  moments  she  came  back  and  went 
again  up  to  the  studio.  She  said  that  she  had  forgotten 
to  tell  me  about  the  stove,  and  I  came  up  here  with  her. 
/  She  was  still  weeping.  It  was  most  strange  and  most  dis 
tressing.  She  showed  me  all  about  the  stove,  and  said 
that  I  must  keep  the  great  fire  in  it  until  you  should  come. 
And  while  we  were  talking  about  the  stove,  she  suddenly 
sank  down  upon  her  knees  again  before  that  picture  there, 
the  large  one  in  front  of  which  the  curtains  are,  and  I 
thought  at  first  that  she  had  spied  that  thing  which  she 
had  lost  there  on  the  floor.  I  was  about  to  say  that  I  was 
glad  that  she  had  found  it,  when  I  saw  that  she  had  not 
found  it  at  all,  but  that  she  was  praying.  For  a  second  I 
thought  that  she  was  praying  to  the  picture,  but  then  I 
heard  her  utter  the  name  of  the  Holy  Virgin  and  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  it  was  she  to  whom  she  prayed.  She  seemed 
to  be  in  great  distress,  and  I  went  out  upon  the  landing, 
for  it  did  not  seem  right  for  me  to  be  there  while  she 
prayed,  and  I  thought  that  that  was  perhaps  what  had  kept 
her  so  long  a  time  before,  and  that  she  had  not  really  lost 
anything,  but  had  been  kneeling  in  prayer  and  not  in 
search. 

"Finally  she  came  out  into  the  hallway  again  where  I 
waited,  and  she  said  to  me  that  I  must  watch  everything 
very  closely,  and  told  me  again  that  all  must  be  in  readi 
ness  for  you  when  you  came/' 

"Did  she  leave  no  word  for  me  at  all?"  asked  Murdoch, 
in  distress  and  greatly  puzzled. 

"Oh,  yes.  But  I  thought  you  would  have  seen  it.  It  is 
there — the  letter — there  on  the  mantel,  by  the  sketches," 
explained  the  concierge.  "She  told  me  to  tell  you  that  it 
was  there,  but  in  my  hurry  and  excitement  I  forgot." 

The  letter  was  half  hidden  by  one  of  Murdoch's 
sketches.  A  ring  at  the  street  bell  called  the  concierge 
away,  and  Murdoch  was  glad  that  she  had  gone,  for  when 
he  read  the  letter  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  so 
strong  was  his  emotion  that  he  could  not  speak.  For 
there,  in  Lizette's  crabbed  little  handwriting,  he  read; 


190  LIZETTE. 

"Oh,  Pudgy!  I  am  doing  this  which  breaks  my  heart. 
I  am  going  away,  and,  oh,  Pudgy!  I  do  not  know  if  I 
shall  come  back.  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,  you  have 
loved  me  so  much  and  been  so  very  good  to  me.  And  I 
have  been  not  grateful.  I  see  it  now.  So,  before  I  say 
more,  I  must — oh,  Pudgy,  it  seems  as  if  my  heart  were 
breaking  in  me — I  must  tell  to  you  my  gratitude.  I  am 
grateful  to  you  for  all  the  days  that  are  gone — dear  Pudgy 
— and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  all  the  days  that  are  to 
come,  for  no  matter  where  I  may  be  in  them,  or  what  I 
may  be  doing,  they  will  always  have  the  brightness  shining 
on  them  from  the  days  that  are  in  the  past.  And  your 
letter,  PuJgy,  the  one  in  which  you  tell  me  that  you  wish 
me  to  be  your  wife!  Oh,  Pudgy,  I  thought  that  I  should 
go  mad  with  joy  and  gratitude,  when  I  read  its  so  sweet 
words.  Ah,  cher,.  cher,  cher,  how  I  had  dreamed  of  that! 
How  I  had  gazed  at  the  weddings  in  the  Bois  and  at  the 
brides  as  they  drove  through  the  streets  of  Paris  in  their 
veils  and  wedding  gowns,  and  dreamed  and  prayed  in  my 
so  small  way  that  sometime  I  might  be  the  wife  of  you — 
that  some  day  you  would  tell  me  what  you  now  have  told 
me  in  that  letter — that  letter — which  shall  ever  rest  upon 
my  heart,  in  life  and  death.  My  love!  My  love!  My  love! 
I  have  sat  for  long  times  in  the  studio  in  many  days  now 
gone,  and  written  on  the  paper  'Madame  John  Murdoch, 
Madame  John  Murdoch,  Madame  John  Murdoch/  over 
and  again  over,  scarcely  hoping  that  ever  such  great  chance 
of  wonderful  fortune  would  come  to  me.  And  if  it  had 
not,  my  Pudgy,  think  not  that  I  should  have  had  the  small 
thought  of  anger  or  right  to  disappointment.  No!  So 
great  has  been  the  happiness  of  my  years  with  you  that  it 
has  been  greater  than  all  the  happiness  in  all  the  lives  of 
twenty  women.  I  know  that.  I  know  it.  I  thank  you. 
A  million  times  I  thank  you.  And  I  should  be  so  proud, 
if  ever,  Pudgy,  I  can  think  that  I  can  be  the  wife  of  you 
without  also,  being  at  the  same  time,  the  ruin  of  you  in 
your  new  home!  Oh,  Pudgy!  I  shall  die  of  joy! 

"You  have  been  so  good  to  me  and  I  have  not  been 
grateful.  I  see  it  now.  I  did  not  see  it  before,  or  before 
I  should  have  realized  that  it  was  wrong  for  me  to  give  to 


GONE.  191 

you  the  bother,  to  ask  of  you  or  expect  more  than  was 
mine  already.  I  have  often  feel  most  guilty  and  to-day  I 
know  why  it  is  that  I  have  feel  so.  It  is  because  I  have 
given  to  you  the  bother.  In  your  home  there  in  America 
I  should  not  have  given  to  you  the  bother,  but  I  did,  and 
I  am  sorry.  Forgive  me,  Pudgy.  Give  forgiveness  to  your 
small  Lizette.  All  the  time  I  begged  you  to  come  back  to 
me,  when  I  should  not  have  done  such  things  at  all,  but 
should  have  been  happy  in  what  you  had  already  given  to 
me — the  years  so  sweet!  But  you!  You,  with  your  heart 
eo  big,  so  tender,  true,  not  selfish!  You  could  not  be 
harsh  enough  to  tell  me  that  I  was  the  bother. 

"When  your  letter  came  to  me — that  so  darling  letter, 
full  of  love  and  asking  of  me  that  I  should  be  your  wife — 
I  had  no  thought  of  going  from  you  as  I  now  am  going. 
My  only  thought  was  waiting,  trembling  with  the  happi 
ness,  until  your  great  strong  arms  should  come  to  me  and 
all  enfold  me,  to  take  me  back  with  you.  I  had  no  realiza 
tion  at  those  moments  of  the  truth  that  what  would  be  so 
great  joyousness  to  me  might  be  the  ruin  to  my  Pudgy. 
Now,  when  I  have  heard  about  New  York,  so  cruel  and  so 
cold,  and  know  what  distress  and  scorn  it  might  bring  to 
you  there  to  have  me  who  have  so  sinned  in  your  home 
for  wife,  I  halt — I  stop. 

"I  have  heard  how  Fosdyck — you  remember  him,  per 
haps — was  ruin  there  because  he  wed  the  one  he  loved,  but 
who  have  sinned  as  I  have  sinned.  I  must  not  bring  on 
you  the  ruin.  The  ruin  must  not  come  to  you  of  me.  It 
is  only  sweetness  which  it  is  that  I  would  give  to  you,  my 
beloved,  my  dear.  It  is  that  way  that  it  seems  to  me.  I 
have  ask  it  of  the  Holy  Virgin  that  she  tell  me  what  to  do, 
but  if  I  have  had  answer  to  my  prayer  it  must  be  that  the 
word  which  came  to  me  that  such  marriage  would  work 
ruin  to  you  was  that  answer.  I  cannot  tell.  I  know  eo 
little  of  such  matters.  I  am  going  now  to  one  who,  per 
haps,  will  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  have  only  the  very,  very 
little  hope  that  she  will  tell  me  that  I  have  the  right  to 
take  of  you  the  great  sacrifice  which  you  out  of  your  BO 
big  heart  have  offered  to  me.  If  it  should  be,  my  Pudgy, 
that  you  should  not  see  your  small  Lizette  again,  remem- 


192  LIZETTE. 

ber  that  she  will,  so  long  as  the  breath  flutters  ever  so 
slightly  in  the  bosom  of  her,  be  loving  you  and  thinking 
of  you  and  thanking  you.  If  it  shall  be  that  the  one  tc 
whom  I  go  shall  not  answer  me,  I  fear  it  must  be  that  I 
shall  be  compel  to  take  my  doubtingness  for  answer  from 
her.  If  she  shall  say  me  TTes,  it  is  right  that  you 
should  take  the  happiness  and  it  shall  not  be  the  ruin  to 
your  Pudgy/  then  I  shall  fly  to  you  and  find  you,  though 
the  whole  world  is  between  us. 

"Worry  not  about  me,  my  Pudgy.  If  the  one  to  whom 
I  go  shall  tell  me  that  it  shall  be  wrong  for  me  to  go  to 
you — that  such  going  shall  bring  the  ruin  to  you  as  it 
came  to  Fosdyck,  surely  I  shall  be  helped  in  some  way  so 
that  I  shall  not  have  too  great  suffering.  If  I  shall  learn 
that  I  must  not  go  to  you,  worry  not  about  the  sorrow 
which  shall  fill  my  soul.  The  so  sweet  memory  of  years 
agone  will  help  me  as  sweet  memories  have  helped  our  dear 
Kentucky.  Tell  him,  Pudgy,  that  I  love  him. 

"I  go  to  find  the  path. 

"I  rain  upon  your  face  a  million  kisses.  I  fold  you  to 
my  heart. 

"If  it  shall  be  that  I  shall  not  come  back  to  you,  it  shall 
at  the  same  time  be  that  ever  I  shall  be  think  of  you 
and  blow  kisses  to  you  from  my  finger  tips.  Again!  Again! 
A  million  kisses!  Again  I  fold  you  to  my  heart.  Again 
adieu.  LIZETTE." 

Murdoch  let  his  fa^e  fall  into  his  hands  and  sobbed. 
Kentucky  went  gently  to  him  and  took  the  letter  from  him. 
When  he  had  read  it,  he,  too,  was  weeping. 

Kentucky  rose  and  took  Murdoch  by  the  hand. 

"I  am  glad  you  asked  her,  old  man,"  he  said.  "You  did 
not  tell  me  that  you  had,  but  I  felt  certain  of  it.  Have 
you  any  notion  of  what  it  is  that  has  driven  her  away?" 

"None." 

"Someone  has  told  her  that  marrying  her  would  ruin 
you  in  New  York.  That  is  plain." 

"Had  she  ever  spoken  of  any  thoughts  of  this  kind  to 
you,  Kentucky,  before  you  came  to  get  me?" 

"No.  She  often  questioned  me  about  New  York,  and  I 
am  afraid  that  I  gave  her  a  bad  opinion  of  the  place.  I 


GONE.  193 

hate  it.  You  know  that.  I  told  her  that  the  people  there 
were  mostly  flunkies,  which  is  true.  I  told  her  that  they 
were  money  worshippers  and  howers  down  before  conven 
tionality,  which  is  also  true.  But  I  cannot  think  that  any 
thing  I  ever  said  to  her  could  have  put  the  notion  in  her 
head  that  if  you  married  her  it  would  bring  moral  ruin 
to  you  there.  Who  could  have  told  her  about  Fosdyck? 
That  is  where  the  clue  is.  You  know  the  man.  He  mar 
ried  his  model,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  took  her  to 
New  York  with  him.  He  hasn't  had  a  very  easy  time,  I 
presume,  but  his  affair  was  as  different  from  yours  and 
Lizette's  as  daylight  is  from  dark.  Poor  child!  Someone 
has  taken  advantage  of  her  emotions.  What  is  all  this  she 
says  about  religion?  We  used  to  read  the  Bible  together 
and  talk  about  the  beauties  of  Christianity.  When  she 
sat  there  with  me  in  my  little  room,  while  I  was  painting 
out  my  debt  to  you  for  those  new  clothes  you  made  me  buy, 
she  read  to  me  from  the  New  Testament  and  I  told  her 
some  Bible  stories,  but  we  had  no  talk  which  could  have 
brought  her  to  a  state  of  mind  at  all  like  what  has  evidently 
sent  the  poor,  mistaken  child  away  from  you.  There  were 
no  such  notions  in  her  head  when  I  saw  her  last.  I  am 
sure  of  that.  Murdoch,  it  has  been  a  woman  or  a  priest. 
We  must  find  a  woman  or  a  priest." 

Together  the  two  men  searched  each  room  for  signs. 
In  the  studio  Murdoch's  easel,  with  his  brushes  in  their 
little  jars  of  water  on  the  floor  beside  it,  bore  a  fresh,  new 
canvas.  Those  others  which  she  had  had  the  dealer 
stretch  that  day  in  preparation  for  the  great  home-coming, 
were  neatly  ranged  beside  the  easel.  The  two  men  un 
derstood.  In  her  closet  there  still  hung  all  her  little 
fineries.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  taken  with  her  only 
the  simplest  of  her  clothes.  Murdoch  searched  in  vain  for 
the  old  red  wrapper  which  had  been  so  dear  to  him,  and 
which  she  had  preserved  with  so  many  darnings.  In  the 
dresser  he  found  the  little  things  of  his  over  which  she  had 
with  such  loving  conscientiousness  labored,  and  the 
darned  socks,  each  pair  in  its  small  round  bundle,  were 
pathetic  in  appeal.  But  nowhere  was  there  clue  of  where 
the  little  one  had  flown  to, 


194  LIZETTE. 

They  went  back  to  the  room  where  the  new  stove  was 
blazing  with  its  false  fire  of  welcome.  Standing  by  it  and 
leaning  an  elbow  on  the  mantel  shelf,  Murdoch  tried  to 
think  out  some  solution  to  the  strange  problem  which  he 
had  found  where  he  had  only  thought  to  find  Lizette.  He 
idly  picked  up  his  sketches  which  she  had  arranged  upon 
it,  and  as  he  did  so  found  that  handkerchief  which  Lizette 
had  lifted  from  the  floor  and  placed  there  with  the  tongs, 
while  yet  her  hatred  of  the  tall  girl  burned  within  her.  He 
thought,  of  course,  that  it  must  be  Lizette's,  but  the  em 
broidered  "M"  in  the  corner  showed  at  once  that  that 
could  not  be.  "Where  had  he  seen  an  "M"  like  that  on 
some  lady's  handkerchief?  He  had  seen  one,  and  studied 
it.  For  a  moment  the  recollection  struggled  vainly  in 
his  mind,  and  then  he  knew.  He  had  seen  it  in  a  corner 
of  Mary  Markleham's  handkerchief  the  day  when  he  had 
driven  through  the  Park  with  her,  and,  as  he  drove,  com 
pared  her,  the  object  of  his  first  boyish  affection,  to  the 
little  girl  who  waited  for  him  in  Paris. 

"Kentucky,"  he  said,  "Mary  Markleham  has  been  here. 
This  is  her  handkerchief,  here  on  the  mantel." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  New  York  girl  whom  I  thought  once  that  I  should 
some  day  like  to  marry.  It  seems  as  if  she  were  ever  to 
be  associated  with  all  the  troubles  which  come  to  Lizette 
and  me.  It  was  she  who  was  at  the  Moulin  Eouge  that 
night  when  Lizette  ran  away,  and  we  searched  all  Paris 
for  her.  Do  you  remember?" 

"I  could  never  forget  that  night,  Murdoch.  She  showed 
her  love  for  you  to  me  that  night  more  clearly  than  she 
had  ever  shown  it  to  me  before.  I  told  you  that  there  was 
a  woman  or  a  priest  in  this.  Did  Lizette  know  that  you 
had  once  thought  of  marrying  that  girl?" 

"Yes.    I  told  her  of  it." 

"Is  she  the  kind  who  would  come  here  to  see  the  little 
girl  and  talk  to  her,  if  she  found  out  that,  perhaps,  Lizette 
had  changed  your  feelings  towards  herself?" 

"No.  It  would  be  as  impossible  for  her  to  do  a  thing 
like  that  as  it  would  be  for  Lizette  herself  to  do  it." 

Again  they  called  the  concierge.    Had  any  ladies  been 


GONE.  195 

there?  Yes.  There  had  been  two.  The  old  woman  told 
them  all  she  could  about  the  visitors — how  they  had  mis 
understood  what  she  had  said  to  them  and  had  come  up 
stairs.  The  concierge  presumed  that  little  Madame  had 
seen  them  and  explained  to  them,  for,  after  awhile,  they 
had  gone  away  again. 

"Do  you  know  where  they  would  be  likely  to  stay  in 
Paris?"  Kentucky  asked  of  Murdoch. 

"Probably  at  the  Grand  Hotel.  They  were  there  be 
fore.  I  think  I  had  best  go  up  and  see  them.  I  cannot 
believe  that  there  can  be  any  connection  between  Mary 
Markleham  and  the  worry  of  the  little  one,  but  I  will  go 
and  see." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  TANGLED  SKEIN. 

He  found  them  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  as  he  had  thought 
he  would.  The  aunt  met  him  first,  and  explained  that 
they  expected  to  go  south  that  night.  She  went  to  get 
Miss  Markleham,  but  when  the  latter  entered  to  see  Mur 
doch  the  aunt  did  not  return  with  her.  She  was  un 
affectedly  glad  to  see  him,  and  it  evidently  greatly  pleased 
her  to. find  that  he  had  only  reached  Paris  that  morning 
and  had  called  on  her  without  delay.  She  spoke  of  the 
promptness  of  his  visit,  and  then  added: 

"But  still,  it  is  not  so  very  striking,  after  all — this 
promptness.  You  prohably  would  not  have  come  at  all  if 
we  had  not  first  gone  to  see  you.  What  a  splendid  place 
your  studio  is!  I  don't  wonder  that  your  mind  turned 
back  from  banking  in  prosaic  old  New  York  to  your  own 
chosen  labor  here.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 
Not  many  men  have  such  a  problem  presented  to  them — 
the  problem  of  choosing  between  two  careers,  at  both  of 
which  they  have  proved  their  worthiness." 

"My  work  will  lie  in  New  York,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mur 
doch.  "The  old  strings  of  love  for  the  smell  of  paint  and 
brushes  and  all  that  goes  with  them  are  strong,  but  I  have 
learned  to  love  the  new  work,  too,  and  my  father  made  it 
something  of  a  charge  upon  me.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I 
was  not  at  the  studio  when  you  came." 

"We  made  ourselves  at  home,  after  a  fashion;  that  is, 
we  misunderstood  the  concierge,  because  we  neither  of  us 
speak  French  beyond  a  few  words,  and  when  she  said  that 
you  were  expected  we  thought  that  she  meant  you  were  at 
once  coming  home.  We  stayed  long  enough  to  disprove 
that,  and  on  the  way  down  decided  that  she  had  merely 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  197 

told  us  that  you  would  be  there  in  a  few  days  and  had  not 
meant  that  you  were  in  Paris  and  had  merely  gone  out  for 
a  little  time.  Our  mistake  was  encouraged  by  the  look  of 
the  studio.  It  certainly  did  not  seem  at  all  like  a  deserted 
place.  The  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the  stove,  and — 
and  the  roses  over  your  picture  were  as  fresh  as  possible." 
She  laughed  and  colored  vividly.  "I — I  must  confess  some 
thing  to  you.  I — I  took  one  of  them.  May  I  be  forgiven?" 
She  tried  to  pass  the  matter  off  gayly,  but  made  rather  a 
bad  job  of  it.  "You  see,  we  traveling  Americans  are  all 
vandals.  We  steal  stones  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  de 
face  the  Tower  of  London  when  the  beef-eaters  are  not 
looking,  and  I  have  quite  a  handful  of  grass  from  that  de 
lightful  garden  back  of  Westminster  Abbey.  You  will  see 
that  the  flower  from  your  picture  has  distinguished  com 
pany  in  my  small  group  of  relics." 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  while  she  spoke  that  one  relic 
was  honored  above  all  others  by  a  place  within  her  bosom. 
She  did  not  tell  him  that  its  thorns  had  torn  her,  as  Lizette, 
without  her  knowledge,  for  a  wicked  moment,  soon  re 
pented  of,  had  hoped  they  would.  She  did  not  tell  him  of 
the  tears  which  dimmed  her  eyesight  when  she  looked  at 
it.  She  did  not  tell  him  that  the  flower  which  she  had 
taken  from  his  picture  of  "Parting"  was  now  a  funeral 
flower,  and  rested  in  the  sentiment  of  her  imagination  on 
a  grave  where  Love  lay  buried. 

"Did  you — did  you  see  no  one  but  the  concierge?"  asked 
Murdoch. 

"We  saw  only  her,"  replied  Miss  Markleham.  "Why? 
Was  there  some  one  else  whom  we  might  have  seen  if  we 
had  looked?  I  shall  confess  that  I  almost  did  carry  my 
wickedness,  begun  in  the  stealing  of  the  rose,  so  far  as  to 
go  through  the  whole  apartment.  I  should  have  loved  to 
do  it.  I  positively  longed  to  probe  the  mysteries  that  lay 
behind  the  curtains.  But  I  resisted  the  temptation  and 
did  not.  Should  I  have  made  terrible  discoveries  if  I  had 
yielded  to  the  tempter?  Is  there  a  Bluebeard  mystery 
about  your  Paris  studio,  while  you  are  living  in  New  York 
and  getting  praised  for  solemn  banking  work?" 

"No.    There  is  no  mystery;  that  is,  there  is  none  of  that 


198  LIZETTE. 

sort.  Only — only  I  cannot  find  a — a  friend,  whom  I  ex 
pected  to  meet  when  I  came  here  to  Paris — and  1  thought, 
perhaps,  that — my  friend  might  have  been  at  the  studio 
when  you  called.  That  was  all." 

The  girl's  quick  eyes  saw  now  what  she  might  have 
seen  at  first  but  for  her  own  confusion.  She  saw  that 
Murdoch  was  greatly  worried  about  something,  and  she 
told  him  so.  She  asked  him  if  she  could  help  him. 

"I  am  greatly  worried,"  Murdoch  confessed.  "Greatly 
worried.  Thank  you  for  your  offer,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
cannot  help  me.  You  see,  I  came  to  Paris,  hoping  to  find 
a  friend,  who  is — whom  I  very,  very  much  wish  to  find. 
But  I  cannot.  I  had  thought  that,  perhaps,  .that  friend 
might  have  been  in  the  studio  when  you  called,  and  that 
you  could  give  me  some  news  or — something." 

It  was  a  poor  speech,  badly  made,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice  that.  He  could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  what  she 
said,  but  he  could  not  reconcile  it  with  what  the  concierge 
had  said.  Lizette  had  certainly  been  in  the  studio  while 
the  visitors  were  there,  and  after  they  had  left  her  joyous- 
ness  had  been  changed  to  tears.  Then  a  glimmering  of 
the  truth  began  to  come  to  him,  although  he  did  not  know 
it  was  the  truth. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  ask  of  you,  Miss  Markleham,"  he 
said,  finally.  "But  I  know  you  will  be  kind  to  me  and  for 
give  me  if  I  make  blunders.  Please  believe  that  I  am  in 
great  distress.  Like  a  drowning  man,  perhaps,  I  grasp  at 
straws." 

Miss  Markleham  was  puzzled.  This  was  an  entirely  new 
John  Murdoch.  She  had  always  thought  of  him  as  one 
whose  self-possession  would  be  hard  to  overturn.  She  did 
not  in  the  least  understand  what  had  overturned  it  now, 
but  that  something  had  was  evident.  The  man's  distress 
was  plain.  She  could  only  tell  him  that  whatever  she 
could  do  to  help  him  she  would  do. 

"Did  you — did  you  and  your  aunt  talk  of  me  and  of  New 
York  while  you  were  at  the  studio?"  he  asked,  stumblingly. 
"Did  you  say  anything  which,  if  overheard  by  any  one, 
might  make  that  person  believe — believe  that " 

He  could  not  go  on.  and  stopped,  confused  and  flushing. 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  199 

"Believe  what?"  she  asked,  with  richly  rising  color.  The 
thought  that  perhaps  there  had  been  some  one  in  the 
studio  to  have  overheard  what  she  had  said  to  her  aunt 
was  a  dreadful  thought.  It  was  she  who  was  worried  now. 
She  spoke  rapidly  after  she  had  given  herself  a  second's 
pause  to  get  her  hreath. 

"John  Murdoch,  do  you  mean  to  intimate  to  me  that 
there  was  some  one  in  that  studio  who  might  have  over 
heard  what  my  aunt  and  myself  said  to  each  other;  some 
one  who  would  have  been  base  enough  to  listen  to  what  we 
said,  even  if  the  opportunity  had  been  there?" 

She  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  stood  facing  him  with 
flaming  cheeks.  The  bodice  beneath  which  that  withered 
rose  was  lying  was  moved  quickly  by  sharp  breathing.  Her 
terror  that  some  one  other  than  her  aunt  had  heard  the 
confession  which  she  had  made  that  day  of  her  love  for 
Murdoch,  some  one  who  would  tell  him  of  it,  almost  over 
whelmed  her.  She  lost  control  of  herself,  and  took  refuge 
in  an  anger  against  that  possible  unknown. 

"Have  you  among  your  friends  an — an  eavesdropper?" 

The  change  in  her  amazed  Murdoch  and  added  to  his  be 
wilderment. 

"I  am  sure  that  there  was  no  one  there  who  would  or 
could,  knowingly,  do  anything  that  by  any  stretch  of  the 
imagination  could  be  termed  base  or  unworthy  of  the  very 
highest  and  most  noble  delicacy  and  honor,"  he  said.  "But 
there  was  some  one  there.  I  shall,  I  see,  have  to  be  most 
frank  and  honest  with  you.  I  shall  have  to  trust  you  with 
a  secret,  but  it  is  one  with  which  I  had  intended  to  trust 
all  the  world  within  a  very  short  time.  There  was  some 
one  in  that  studio,  Miss  Markleham.  Do  you  remember 
that  you  were  good  enough  to  pick  me  up  and  let  me  drive 
with  you  through  Central  Park  one  day?" 

Yes,'?  she  said,  very  softly,  as  if  the  memory  hurt  her; 
"I  remember  very  clearly." 

"Well,  I  told  you  that  day  that  I  was  coming  over  here 
to  take  back  some  one  with  me  to  New  York." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Markleham,  still  more  softly.  Indeed, 
her  voice  was  almost  inaudible.  "You  told  me  that  you 
should  take  back  to  New  York  with  you  an  old  friend  here 


200  LIZETTE. 

named  Kentucky.  I  asked  you  if  there  was  any  one  else 
here  whom  you  might  take  back  with  you,  and  you  did  not 
answer.  I  remember — very  well.  You  did  not  answer." 

"There  was  some  one  else,"  said  Murdoch.  "There  was 
some  one  else." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Miss  Markleham,  very  softly.  "I  could 
tell  it  that  day  by  the  look  in  your  eyes  and  the  dreams,  un 
spoken  in  your  voice.  I  knew  then  that  you  were  in  love, 
and  that  when  you  came  to  Paris  you  would  get  your  love 
and  take  her  back  with  you.  I  knew  it,  and  I  told  Auntie 
so.  Was  I  right?" 

"You  were  wholly  right.  You  were — wholly  right  But 
when  I  came  to  Paris  I  found  that  the — the  one — whom  I 
had — intended  to  take  back  with  me — had,  filled  with  a 
mistaken  idea  of  self-sacrifice — had  gone  away.  And  that 
is  why  I  am  worried.  It  occurred  to  me  that,  perhaps,  that 
day  you  and  your  aunt  might  have  said  something  there  in 
the  studio,  which  the  little  one — the  one  whom  I  had  in 
tended  to  take  back  with  me — whom  I  came  over  here  to 
get — said  something  wholly  unintentionally;  I  mean,  with 
out  knowledge  of  the  presence  of — of  any  one — which 
might  have  given  the — an  idea  that,  perhaps,  it  would  be 
better  for  me — for  me,  you  understand — an  idea  that,  per 
haps,  it  might  be  better  for  me  if,  when  I  came,  I  should 
find  no  one  waiting  for  me,  no  one  to  take  back  with  me. 
She  was  in  the  studio  when  you  were  there." 

Miss  Markleham  turned  away  from  him  and  went  to  the 
window,  just  as  she  had  turned  away  from  her  aunt  that 
day  in  the  studio,  and  gone  to  the  window  to  look  out,  un 
seeing,  at  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  There  was 
great  tumult  beneath  that  hidden  rose  which  she  had  stolen 
from  over  "Parting."  It  was  too  great,  for  a  moment,  to 
make  it  possible  for  her  to  speak.  When  she  had  told  her 
aunt  that  day  that  she  was  certain  that  John  Murdoch  was 
in  love  and  that  he  was  coming  over  to  Paris  to  get  his 
love  and  take  her  back  with  him,  she  had  believed  what  she 
had  said,  believed  it  heartily  enough  to  suffer  keenly  be 
cause  of  her  belief.  But  this  confirmation  of  it,  this  proof 
from  his  own  lips  that  the  man  she  loved  did,  really,  love 
another,  was  hard  to  beaf  just  the  same,  and  so  she  walked 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  201 

for  a  moment  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  unable  to  still 
the  tumult  in  her  heart  enough  to  make  speech  possible. 
At  last  she  turned  and  spoke  to  him.  The  flush  had  left 
her  face  and  there  was  pallor  in  its  place. 

"If  you  will  be  frank  with  me,"  she  said,  "I  shall  be 
frank  with  you.  You  are  in  love  with  some  one.  Am  I 
right?" 

"You  are  wholly  right." 

"You  are  afraid  that  the  some  one  whom  you  love  was 
in  the  studio  that  day,  and  that  she  overheard  something 
which  we  might  have  said  about  you,  or  about  New  York, 
or  about  something,  which  has  made  her  run  away  from 
you?" 

"You  are  wholly  right.  I  fear  just  that.  I  am  in  great 
trouble  and  distress,  Miss  Markleham.  I  cannot  tell  just 
what  to  think.  Something  has  driven  her  away  from  me. 
I  don't  know  what.  I  only  know  that  after  your  departure 
she  was  in  great  distress,  and  that  finally  she  went  away, 
because,  as  she  said  to  me  in  the  letter  she  left  for  me,  she 
had  heard  about  a  man  named  Fosdyck,  an  American 
artist,  who  married  his  model  over  here  and  took  her  home 
with  him  in  New  York  City,  and  who,  she  says,  was  ruined 
by  so  doing.  She  may  have  been  told  this  by  some  busy 
body.  She  was  in  the  studio  the  other  day  when  you  and 
your  aunt  called  and  intended — she  told  the  concierge  that 
she  intended — to  tell  you  that  you  had  misunderstood,  and 
that  I  was  not  in  Paris,  but  would  be  in  a  day  or  two,  the 
concierge  having  been  unable  to  make  you  understand.  It 
may  be  that  she  had  intended  to  tell  you,  but  that  after 
she  found  who  it  was — she — she  could  not  bring  herself — 
to — to  speak  to  you.  There  are — there  are  especial  reasons 
why — why  she  might  hesitate  to  speak  to  you" 

"To  me,  especially?    Why?"  asked  Miss  Markleham. 

"Must  I  tell  you  why?"  asked  Murdoch. 

"You  said  you  would  be  frank.  You  said — that  you 
were — grasping  at  a  straw.  You  should  make  the  straw  as 
strong  as  possible.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

Miss  Markleham  was  very  tense  and  eager.  Murdoch's 
confession  was  not  a  surprise  to  her;  that  is,  the  subject 
matter  of  the  confession  was  not  a  surprise  to  her.  Bui 


202  LIZETTE. 

her  heart  stopped  in  horror  when  she  thought  that  of  all 
people  in  the  world  it  might  be  that  the  very  woman  whom 
John  Murdoch  loved  was  the  very  one  who  had  heard  her 
make  her  own  passionate  confession  to  her  aunt.  She  was 
in  an  agony  to  learn  all  she  could. 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you  why,"  said  Murdoch,  very  slowly. 
"Do  you  remember  the  night  we  met  at  the  Moulin 
Rouge?" 

"Yes."    Miss  Markleham  said  this  very  softly. 

"Well,  that  night — she  was — with  me  there.  And  I — 
I  neglected  her — for  you.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
neglected  her.  She  thought — she  thought — that  I — that 
I  cared  for  you.  That  was  why — why  I  thought  that  if 
you — if  you,  especially — said  anything  which  she  might 
— innocently,  mind  you — she  never  would  have  intention 
ally  played  eavesdropper,  but  she  is  human  and  might 
have  listened  to  what  you  said  without  intending  to  at 
first,  while  she  was  preparing  to  go  in  to  see  you.  Then, 
if  you  said  something  of  that  sort — why  she  might — she 
might  have  thought  it  was  her — was  her  duty  to  run  away 
from  me — for  my  sake.  It  would  be  like  her — to  run 
away  from  me — for  my  sake." 

Miss  Markleham  had  never  seen  John  Murdoch  affected 
at  all  like  this  before.  She  would  not  have  believed  it  if 
any  one  had  told  her  that  he  could  be  so  affected. 

"You  understand,  Miss  Markleham,  that  if  my  distress 
and  worry  were  not  very  real,  and  if  I  did  not  feel  that 
somehow,  without  your  knowledge,  your  visit  to  the  studio 
is  connected  with  the  course  that  she  has  taken — you  un 
derstand  that  I  should  not  say  these  things  to  you.  I  am 
sure  that  you  will  understand,  and  that  you  will  help  me 
if  you  can." 

"How  would  it  help  you  in  finding  her,  even  if  you  knew 
that  it  was  something  which  we  said  which  gave  her  an 
idea  that  it  would  injure  you  to  marry  her?"  There  was 
great  tumult  underneath  the  rose  which  had  once  been 
over  Murdoch's  "Parting,"  the  rose  whose  thorn  had  torn 
Miss  Markleham's  tender  flesh,  the  rose  which  tore  her 
heart  more  deeply  than  any  thorn  would  ever  tear  her 
flesh.  When  she  went  on,  she  spoke  very  rapidly.  "If  it 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  203 

was  not  true — if  it  was  not  really  true,  that  it  would  injure 
you  to  marry  her,  could  anything  that  we  could  say  make 
her  think  so?  Is  a  woman  who  would  hide  and  listen  to 
what  other  women  say  worth  marrying?  I  know  nothing 
of  where  she  has  gone  or  why." 

"Was  anything  said  that  day  about  Fosdyck's  marriage? 
Did  you  say  that  it  had  ruined  him  in  New  York  City  to 
have  married  as  he  did?" 

"No.  I  said,  on  the  contrary,  that  Fosdyck  loved  his 
wife  and  she  loved  him.  It  was  my  aunt  who  said  that 
the  marriage  had  ruined  him." 

Miss  Markleham  suddenly  became  much  excited  at  a 
thought  which  came  to  her. 

"Was  it  she — this  woman  whom  you  love — who  kept  the 
roses  there  in  your  studio  over  your  big  picture?"  she  de 
manded.  "Did  she  put  them  there?  Did  she?" 

"Yes,"  said  Murdoch.  "The  souvenir  you  took  was — 
one  of  the  posies  that  she  had  arranged — to  please  me 
when  I  came  back  to  Paris  and  to  her." 

Miss  Markleham  was  very  white  now.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Murdoch 
sat  with  his  head  bowed,  thinking  hard.  He  scarcely  saw 
that  she  had  risen.  When  she  came  back  her  self  control 
was  gone  entirely.  She  tossed  the  withered  rose  into  his 
lap. 

"Then,  surely,  I  don't  want  it,"  she  said,  quickly.  "There 
it  is." 

He  put  his  hand  on  it  in  surprise  and  felt  the  warmth 
in  the  poor,  withered  posy.  Her  hand  was  at  her  bosom, 
and  he  guessed  where  it  had  been.  He  was  astonished  be 
yond  measure. 

"Bah!  It  is  horrible,"  she  said.  "Horrible!  To  think 
that  I  took  a  flower  that  woman  bought  and  placed  above 
your  picture.  To  think  that  I  took  her  flower  and — and 
did  what  I  did  with  it.  It  is  horrible!" 

She  made  a  little  motion  of  disgust. 

"Yes,  we  talked  about  Fosdyck  there,"  she  said.  "We 
did  talk  of  him.  And  Auntie  said  he  had  ruined  himself 
by  his  marriage  to  some  woman  whom  he  came  over  here 
to  find.  She  also  said  that  she  hoped  you  hadn't  been  so 


204  LIZETTE. 

idiotic.  And  I  defended  you.  I  said  it  was  impossible.  I 
believed  in  you.  I  said  it  was  impossible  for  you — you 
whom  I  had  set  upon  a  pedestal — to  ever  love  any  woman 
who  was  unworthy  of  you.  I  said  that  because  I  was  mis 
taken.  I  believed  in  you.  But  I  was  wrong,  it  seems.  You 
did  love  a  woman  who  was  unworthy  of  you,  and  you — 
you  of  all  men — had  came  to  Paris  for  the  very  purpose  of 
marrying  her  and  marrying  ruin,  just  as  Auntie  said  she 
hoped  you  wouldn't.  And  she — that  very  woman — was 
behind  those  curtains — she  must  have  been  behind  those 
curtains — listening  to  all  I  said.  What  a  triumph  for  her! 
It  is  horrible!  Horrible!" 

"How?  A  triumph  over  what?  She  has  gone.  I  came 
to  get  her  and  to  take  her  back  with  me.  She  is  not  at  all 
what  you  say  she  is  She  is  the  sweetest,  she  is  the  truest, 
she  is  the  best  woman  I  have  ever  known.  Her  very  flight 
was  born  of  nothing  but  her  true,  unselfish  love.  Not  wor 
thy  of  me?  She  is  worthy  of  the  best  man  that  ever  lived. 
She  says  she  is  not  worthy  and  has  gone  away.  Is  that 
the  act  of  a  woman  who  is  selfish?  She  heard  your  talk 
about  the  ruin  that  Fosdyck's  marriage  had  taken  to  him. 
She,  not  understanding,  has  feared  that  like  might  come 
to  me  if  she  did  as  I  entreated  and  went  back  with  me.  So, 
to  save  me  from  herself — from  herself,  do  you  understand? 
— she  has  run  away  from  me.  She  has  gone  away  with 
her  poor  heart  torn  and  bleeding  through  the  idle  talk  of 
women.  I  see  the  whole  miserable  complication  now. 
Shall  I  tell  it  to  you?  You  can  guess  then  whether  she  is 
selfish;  whether  she  is  worthy  of  me  or  of  any  other  man 
that  ever  lived.  I  spoke  to  you  a  moment  ago  about  the 
night  I  saw  you  at  the  Moulin  Eouge.  Do  you  remember? 
Well,  that  night  I  had  taken  her  there,  and  I  neglected  her 
to  talk  to  you.  I  neglected  her  most  shamefully,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  I  had  known  and  loved  her.  I  finally 
found  why  it  was  that  my  unintentional  neglect  of  her  had 
hurt  her  so  tremendously.  She  had  watched  us  from  be 
hind  a  pillar  for  a  moment,  and  got  the  idea  in  her  head 
that  you  and  I  were  in  love  with  one  another.  You  see? 
You  asked  me  to  be  frank,  and  I  am  frank.  Afterwards, 
I  did  what  was,  perhaps,  a  very  foolish  thing.  I  told  her 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  205 

that  before  I  came  to  Paris  I  had  been  in  love — with  you. 
It  was  true.  When  I  left  New  York  I  was  in  love  with  you 
— or  thought  I  was.  Please  forgive  me,  Miss  Markleham. 
You  told  me  that  I  was  to  tell  you  all  and  that  then  you 
would  be  frank  with  me.  She  seemed  very  much  aston 
ished  to  think  that  any  one  who  had  known  you — so  splen 
did  and  beautiful  a  girl  as  you — could  ever  afterwards  love 
such  a  modest,  unassuming  little  one  as  she — Lizette." 

"Is  that  her  name?"  asked  Miss  Markleham,  who  was 
listening  very  eagerly. 

"Yes.  She  could  not  understand  it.  In  all  your  life, 
Miss  Markleham,  no  one  has  ever  paid  you  more  sincere 
and  earnest  compliments  than  has  that  same  Lizette — the 
little  one  who  has  run  away  and  left  me  because  she  heard 
your  aunt  say  in  the  studio  that  marriage  to  a  Latin  Quar 
ter  girl  had  ruined  Fosdyck.  It  probably  would  not  have 
made  so  much  impression  on  her  had  it  come  from  any 
other  source  in  any  other  circumstances.  But  now  she 
feels — poor  child — after  seeing  you  again,  and  admiring 
you  again;  and  after  hearing  that  Fosdyck's  marriage 
ruined  him  and  after  hearing  your  aunt  say  that  she  hoped 
I  had  not  come  over  here  to  make  a  blunder  such  as  he 
had  made — she  feels  that  she  has  no  right  to  risk  my  fu 
ture;  that  she  has  no  right  to  marry  me.  So  she  has  gone 
away.  I  see  plainly  that  you  cannot  help  me.  What 
you  have  told  me  only  confirms  what  I  had  feared, 
that's  all.  It  shows  me  why  she  went  away.  It 
shows  me  what  changed  her  train  of  thought,  which  I  know 
had  been  very  happy  and  exultant  till  you  came.  The 
concierge  has  told  me  that  she  was  most  joyous  in  the 
thought  of  my  return  to  her  before  that.  Can't 
you  appreciate  her  action  as  I  do,  Miss  Markleham?  Can't 
you  see  the  real  beauty  and  self-sacrifice  of  it?  Can't  you 
understand  my  worry  now?  Can't  you  see  what  has  gone 
from  me  and  why  I  should  wish  to  get  it  back?  Don't  you 
see  the  graadeur  of  the  sacrifice  the  poor  child  has  at 
tempted? 

"Did  she  say  nothing  in  her  letter  to  you  of  what  she 
overheard  us  say,  except  that  about  Fosdyck?"  asked  Miss 
Markleham,  with  anxious  eye  fastened  on  his  face. 


206  LJZETTE. 

"Nothing.  You  must  remember  that  she  did  not  even 
say  that  she  had  overheard  you  say  that.  That  is  all  sup 
position,  built  on  what  the  concierge  has  told  me. 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  she  has  gone  away  wholly 
with  the  idea  of  saving  you  from  a  fate  like  that  which  my 
aunt  said  had  come  to  Fosdyck?" 

"I  know  it!" 

Miss  Markleham  arose  again,  and  again  went  to  the  win 
dow  to  look  out.  Her  heart  was  strangely  troubled.  Just 
over  it  there  was  a  new  wound,  from  the  thorns  of  the  rose 
which  she  had  torn  out  too  impulsively  to  throw  back  into 
Murdoch's  lap.  The  blood  oozed  slowly  from  the  tiny 
hurt,  but  she  did  not  know  it  and  if  she  had  it  would  not 
have  mattered  to  her.  She  was  trying  to  appreciate  what 
the  other  girl  had  done.  She  was  trying  to  see  if  there  was 
some  loophole  through  which  she  could  see  something  that 
was  unworthy,  sordid,  mean  or  selfish  in  the  action  of  the 
other  girl  who  loved  John  Murdoch.  But  there  was  noth 
ing  of  that  sort  to  see.  She  searched  eagerly,  but  there 
was  no  such  motive  there  to  find.  If  she  could  have  found 
a  cause  for  hating  her  and  declaring,  in  her  heart,  against 
her,  she  would  have  been  glad  to  find  it,  glad  to  have  given 
it  full  sway  within  her.  But  she  could  find  nothing  of 
that  sort.  And  even  as  Lizette's  soft  heart  had  changed 
toward  her  that  morning  in  the  studio — had  changed  from 
bitter,  jealous  hate  to  soft  and  solemn  pity — so  hers 
changed  now. 

Miss  Markleham  turned  back  toward  Murdoch  slowly. 
She  saw  the  wonder  of  what  the  other  girl  had  done.  She 
saw  it,  and  the  seeing  hurt  her.  It  made  her  feel,  deep 
in  her  heart,  that  the  other  girl  had  shown  greater  signs 
of  worthiness  than  she  had.  She  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  in  her  heart.  If  the  other  girl  had  shown  herself  self- 
sacrificing,  so  would  she.  She  would  not  let  the  other 
triumph  over  her  in  fact,  even  though  she  might  be 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  victory.  This  woman*  whom  John 
Murdoch  loved  should  not  use  her  as  a  means  of  showing 
to  him  such  great  heights  of  lofty  love.  The  contrast  in 
his  mind  would  be  too  great  if  he  should  ever  find  it  out. 
She  turned  to  Murdoch. 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  207 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  said  what  I  did  about  her  listening 
behind  the  curtains,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  am  very  sorry. 
I  presume  I  should  have  done  the  same  thing.  Please  for 
give  me.  Let  me  help  you  find  your  missing  one.  I  am 
very  sorry  if  we  have,  in  ignorance,  been  the  means  of 
bringing  all  this  sorrow  to  you.  I  can  see  how  deep  your 
grief  is.  Your  face  tells  that  most  plainly.  She  must  be 
wonderful — this  sweetheart  that  you  came  to  find  and  can 
not.  She  must  be  wonderful,  if  she  really  loves  you,  to  go 
away  like  that  because  she  heard  what  we  said  the  other 
day  about  Fosdyck." 

She  did  not  tell  him  what  else  it  was  that  she  must  have 
heard — those  other  things  which  made  the  poor  child's 
sacrifice  so  much  greater  in  her  woman's  eyes  and  so  hu 
miliated  her.  She  did  not  let  him  see,  as  she  could  see, 
the  true  grandeur  of  it. 

"You  must  learn  a  little  more  before  you  can  do  very 
much,"  she  went  on,  slowly,  after  she  had  pulled  herself 
together.  "You  must  learn  a  little  more  to  base  your 
search  on.  Please  promise  me  to  let  me  help  you." 

"Thank  you,  there  is  no  way,"  said  Murdoch.  "You 
have  helped  me  already,  by  showing  me  the  immediate 
cause  which  made  her  go  away.  Poor  little  child,  she 
does  not  understand." 

"Won't  you  let  me  help  you?"  asked  Miss  Markleham 
again. 

"There  is  no  way,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Will  you  promise  to  if  you  or  I  can  find  a  way — " 

"If  I  find  anything  that  you  can  do  to  help  me,  I  shall 
ask  you  to,"  he  said.  "But  you  are  going  away  to-day." 

"I  shall  wait,"  said  Miss  Markleham.  "I  shall  wait  and 
hope  that  you  will  find  a  way  in  which  I  can  be  of  use  to 
you — and  her." 

"But  there  is  really  nothing,"  Murdoch  said.  "Besides 
I  shouldn't  think  of  letting  you  sacrifice  your  plans." 

Miss  Markleham  kindled  for  a  second. 

"No.  Only  she  must  be  permitted  to  make  any  sacri 
fices.  Only  she.  No  one  but  she  must  be  magnanimous 
and  self -forgetful.  It  is  not  fair!"  Instantly  she  real 
ized  that  she  had  said  more  than  she  had  intended  to  or 


208  LIZETTE. 

wished  to.  So  she  added,  lamely,  "You  see  I  am  jealous  of 
your  little  one.  You  and  I  are  such  old  friends.  I  should 
like  very  much  to  feel  that  I  had  helped  you.  Truly  I 
should  like  it  very  much.  Please  let  me,  if  I  can.  The 
postponement  of  our  journey  would  be  absoleutly  nothing. 
What  does  it  all  amount  to,  anyway?  We  are  here  to 
find  amusement.  We  are  going  south  for  nothing  else. 
Auntie  is  a  Catholic,  as  you  know,  and  makes  a  polite  pre 
tense  of  devotion  in  the  journey.  But  it  is  nothing.  She 
would  gladly  give  it  up  if  anything  more  interesting  should 
turn  up.  It  would  really  give  me  pleasure  to  have  some  real 
reason  for  going  anywhere.  That  is  the  trouble  with  so 
many  of  us  women.  We  have  no  real  reason  for  doing 
anything — no  object  except  amusement  to  be  obtained  by 
it.  Please  do  this  for  me.  Please  let  me  have  an  object." 
Her  eyes  turned  downward  and  rested  on  the  rose  which 
was  between  his  fingers,  hanging  down  at  the  side  of  his 
chair.  "Did  you  see  where  I  had  that  rose?" 

He  reddened  now.  He  had  seen,  and  for  a  moment  he 
had  thought  about  it,  wonderingly,  but  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  it  in  the  worry  of  his  thoughts  about  Lizette.  He 
spoke  hesitatingly.  The  thought  that  this  girl  really 
loved  him  did  not  come  to  him,  exactly,  but  he  was  em 
barrassed.  He  answered,  hesitatingly: 

"Yes.  I — think — I  know  where — it  was.  It  was — 
very  sweet  of  you  to — to  be  so  good  to  it — because — be 
cause  it  had  been  over  my  picture." 

"I  am  glad  you — saw,"  she  said. 

It  was  not  true.  She  was  not  glad.  But  she  thought 
she  saw  an  opportunity  to  make  the  humiliation  of  the 
revelation  her  impulsiveness  had  brought  upon  her  a  little 
less  poignant. 

"I  had  it  here,"  she  said,  slowly,  and  placed  her  hand 
over  the  spot  where  the  rose  had  lain  and  warmed  itself 
against  her  heart.  "I  was  so  glad  to  see  the  picture  which 
had  made  the  world  recognize  your  merit  as  an  artist.  You 
are  quite  the  greatest  man  I  know,  you  know.  Keally 
you  are  a  very  great  man,  indeed.  First  you  come  over  here 
and  make  them  all  bow  down  to  you  as  an  artist,  and  give 
you  prizes  and  all  that.  Then  you  go  over  to  New  York  and 


A  TANGLED  SKEIN.  209 

set  the  whole  world  talking  about  you  as  a  banker  and  save 
I  don't  know  how  many  people  from  losing  money  by  your 
clever  work.  You  have  dazzled  all  of  us.  It  is  not  sur 
prising  that  I  should  want  a  souvenir,  is  it?  You  know  I 
told  you  about  the  others.  Well,  I  gave  this  the  place  of 
honor.  That  was  because  I — like  you  and — value  your 
friendship  so  much.  Don't  you  see?  Now,  please  let  me 
have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  you  value  mine  and 
trust  me.  Please — please  let  me  help  you.  If  you  would 
tell  me  where  to  look,  and  how  I  might  know  her  when  I 
saw  her,  I  would  go  out  and  walk  the  streets  and  try  to 
help  you  find  her  that  way,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

"I  could  tell  you  how  to  know  her,"  said  Murdoch, 
slowly,  "if  you  saw  my  picture  'Parting*  at  the  studio;  she 
posed  for  the  girl  in  it." 

Miss  Markleham  closed  her  eyes  a  little.  She  had  won 
dered  if  the  girl  in  "Parting"  had  been  the  one  he  loved 
so  much.  It  made  it  hard  for  her  for  a  moment,  for,  even 
as  Lizette  had  looked  at  her,  and,  marvelling  at  her  beauty, 
had  wondered  why  John  Murdoch  could  have  thrown  it 
away  to  choose  only  her,  Lizette,  so  when  Miss  Markleham 
recalled  to  her  mind  the  girl  in  "Parting"  she  thought 
with  envy  of  the  dainty  gracefulness  of  figure,  the  small 
oval  face,  pathetic  in  the  picture,  but  full  of  possibilities 
of  gayety  and  life;  the  big  brown  eyes,  wistful  in  their 
sorrow;  the  small  hands,  drooping  limply  at  her  sides. 
From  one  of  them  there  had  evidently  just  passed  to  the 
soldier  lover  in  the  picture  the  handkerchief  which  he 
held  tightly  to  his  lips  as  he  looked  toward  the  ground. 

"Yes,"  I  remember  very  well,"  she  said.  "She  is  very 
pretty.  Is  that  she?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah  I  She  is  very  sweet — this  love  of  yours.  What  is 
her  name?" 

"Lizette;  Lizette  Merrille." 

"It  is  a  pretty  name." 

'It  is  because  I  love  her  so,  perhaps,  but  of  all  names  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  sweetest,"  said  John  Murdoch. 

Again  Miss  Markleham  arose  and  went  to  the  window. 
She  could  not  understand  her  own  emotions — they  changed 


210  LIZETTE. 

so  swiftly,  were  so  contradictory.  She  thought  of  that 
sweet  figure  in  the  picture  and  the  pathetic,  grief  stricken 
face  which  looked  backward  at  the  soldier  lover  in  it.  And 
now  the  grief  had  really  come  to  her,  just  as  it  had  come, 
in  the  imagination  of  the  artist  to  the  painted  girl  there 
in  the  picture.  It  was  strangely  dramatic  that  she  should 
have  posed  for  that  especial  picture,  "Parting."  If  Miss 
Markleham  had  known  the  tempest  of  pity  and  sympathy 
which  had  swept  through  Lizette's  heart  that  day  when 
she  had  stood  peeping  at  her  own  emotion  from  behind  the 
curtains,  she  would  have  been  startled  by  its  similarity  to 
the  feeling  of  remorse  and  pity  which  filled  her  own  heart 
now. 

"You  must  let  me  help  you,"  she  said,  when  she  turned 
back  again  from  her  gazing  out  of  the  window.  "There 
are  reasons  which  you  do  not  know  of — a  woman's  reasons 
and  very  good  ones — why  you  must  let  me  help  you." 
Mary  Markleham  really  loved  John  Murdoch  and  she  could 
not  bear  the  thought  that  that  other  woman  who  also 
loved  him  should  have  all  the  privileges  of  sacrifice. 
And,  besides,  her  heart  went  out  in  pity  to  Lizette,  just 
as  Lizette's  had  gone  out  in  pity  to  her  that  day  in  the 
studio.  That  figure  in  the  pictufe  had  appealed  very 
strongly  to  her  when  she  saw  it  on  the  painted  canvas. 
The  thought  that  it  was  real,  and,  somewhere,  mourning 
for  its  love  alone,  while  she  was  sitting  there  and  talking 
to  him,  was  dramatic.  It  was  almost  tragic. 

Murdoch  rose  and  prepared  to  leave.  He  said  that  there 
were  many  things  which  he  must  do,  and,  on  her  earnest 
pleading,  he  promised  to  return  and  tell  her  what  his 
progress  was  and  ask  her  for  her  help  if  there  were  any 
way  in  which  she  could  be  of  assistance  to  him. 

He  left  the  hotel  but  little  wiser  than  he  had  been  when 
he  had  gone  there.  He  knew  as  he  slowly  descended  the 
broad  staircase  why  it  was  the  little  one  had  fled  from 
him,  but  he  was  no  nearer  to  finding  where  she  was  or 
where  to  look  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

UNEAVELING  THE  THKEADS. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  Kentucky  should  remain  at  the 
studio  until  Murdoch's  return  from  his  visit  to  Miss  Mar- 
kleham.  They  had  both  hoped  against  hope  that  some 
news  might  reach  him  there;  that  perhaps,  even,  Lizette 
might  go  back  there,  as  she  had  done  that  night  after  her 
flight  from  the  Moulin  Rouge.  But  no  such  good  tidings 
greeted  Murdoch  when  he  returned  to  find  his  old  friend 
sitting  gloomily  by  the  fire,  with  his  head  bowed  in  his 
hands.  He  listened  eagerly  to  what  Murdoch  had  to  tell 
him.  When  he  had  finished  (of  course,  even  to  Ken 
tucky,  Murdoch  did  not  tell  the  little  story  of  the  rose), 
Kentucky  stretched  his  tall  form  angrily: 

"You  see,  it  was  as  I  said,"  he  grumbled.  "There  was 
a  woman  in  it.  There  always  is  a  woman  in  it.  Why 
couldn't  they  have  stayed  away  and  kept  their  mouths 
shut  about  Fos'dyck?" 

"They  didn't  know  that  Lizette  was  there,  you  know, 
Kentucky,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Oh,  no,"  the  old  student  said,  complainingly.  "This 
girl,  Markleham,  didn't  know  that  she  was  playing  hob 
that  night  at  the  Moulin  Rouge.  She  didn't  know  it,  but 
she  played  hob  quite  as  effectively  as  if  she  had.  She  has 
a  genius  for  making  trouble  without  knowing — that  girl 
has." 

There  was  then,  and  still  is,  on  the  detective  force  of 
Paris  a  small,  dark  man,  named  Houlier.  This  is  his  real 
name,  and  I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  pay  a  small 
tribute  to  him.  I  have  known  of  many  cases  where 
Houlier  has  helped  puzzled  Americans  and  English  folk 
in  Paris.  His  ability  to  speak  every  language  that  the 


212  LIZETTE. 

modern  world  has  use  for  makes  his  selection  by  the  chief 
almost  certain  in  any  case  which  involves  communication 
with  foreigners  in  Paris  or  traveling  to  other  countries 
necessary.  Houlier  has  peculiarities.  He  is  a  small  man, 
dark  as  a  Spaniard,  and  as  innocent  in  appearance  as  a 
country  urchin  bound  for  Sunday  school.  He  differs 
from  most  Frenchmen,  in  that  he  never  seems  to  be 
affected.  There  is  ever  an  air  of  genuineness,  of  complete 
frankness,  about  Houlier,  which  is  beautiful  to  look  at  and 
is  as  thoroughly  convincing  as  it  is  false.  Knowledge  of, 
and,  indeed,  some  slight  acquaintance  with  this  astute 
little  prober  into  mysteries  was  among  those  many  odds 
and  ends  stored  in  Kentucky's  mental  garret.  He  had 
been  thinking  of  him  during  Murdoch's  absence,  and  now 
asked  Murdoch  if  he  might  go  and  get  him. 

"He  lives  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  Gardens  here," 
he  said.  "If  anyone  can  find  her  he  can.  Shall  I  go  and 
get  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Murdoch.  And  Kentucky  went  to  get  him. 
The  old  student  seemed  very  bent  and  feeble  as  he  left  the 
room,  and  Murdoch  forgot  his  own  worry,  for  a  moment, 
as  he  looked  at  him.  The  man's  devotion  to  Lizette  and 
to  him  was  wonderful.  Murdoch  thought  of  it  and,  rising, 
hurried  to  him  before  he  left  the  room.  Kentucky  turned 
at  hearing  the  quick  step  behind  him. 

"Is  there  anything  else?"  he  asked. 

"No.  Only  I  wanted  to  shake  hands  with  you.  Not 
many  men  have  ever  known  a  friendship  such  as  yours, 
Kentucky.  You  don't  blame  me,  do  you,  old  man?" 
asked  Murdoch. 

"No.  Damn  it  all,  I  don't.  I  wish  I  could.  I'd  take 
it  out  of  you.  I  tried  to  make  out  a  case  against  you  while 
you  were  gone,  but  there  isn't  any  case  to  make.  I  wish 
there  was.  I'd  like  to  hammer  some  one.  If  I  could 
really  blame  you,  Murdoch,  what  a  licking  I  would  give 
you.  But  I  can't — and  that  woman,  who  has  made  the 
whole  trouble,  apparently — I  can't  hammer  her.  And,  be 
sides,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  she's  just  as  innocent  of  conscious 
wrong  as  you  are.  That's  the  trouble.  It's  such  a  beastly 
mix-up.  There's  no  one  to  be  blamed — much.  And  so 


UNRAVELING  THE  THREADS.  313 

there  is  no  one  to  be  pummeled.     I  have  hopes,  though." 

They  both  laughed  a  little  at  the  extravagance  of  the 
talk — small,  rueful  laughs,  that  had  no  real  amuse 
ment  in  them,  and  Kentucky  went  his  way  down  stairs  to 
find  the  wise  detective. 

Kentucky  came  back,  presently,  with  Houlier.  He 
was  most  courteously  interested  while  Murdoch  told  the 
story,  with  Kentucky's  help.  He  wished  to  know  espe 
cially  about  Madame  Lizette's  women  friends.  She  had 
none?  Ah,  that  was  bad.  Was  there  no  one?  Only  the 
old  woman  who  sold  coals.  Kentucky  spoke  of  her.  He 
had  often  noticed  that  Lizette  seemed  to  like  her  and 
talked  with  her  at  her  shop  and  when  she  came  to  the 
studio  with  her  supplies. 

"This  may  be  bad  for  us.  It  seems  unlikely  that  she 
would  tell  her  secrets  to  an  old  woman  who  sells  coals. 
Still,  if  she  had  no  other  women  friends — who  knows? 
Women  always  tell  some  woman.  It  is  a  very  pretty  story." 

The  detective  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  puffed  his 
cigarette  with  keen  enjoyment. 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  story,"  he  went  on.  "It  is  a  story 
of  the  emotions  wholly.  Ah,  but  it  is  pretty!  And  it  will 
not  be  hard  to  solve  it,  I  think.  Not  very  hard.  The 
motive  is  so  clear — and  very  pretty.  Very  pretty.  No,  I 
think  it  will  not  be  so  very  hard.  Which  old  woman  is  it 
who  sells  coals?  There  are  many  in  the  Quarter.  If  it 
is  the  one  down  here  on  the  corner,  just  beyond  the 
Gardens,  I  think  it  will  be  easy."  He  stopped  in  thought, 
a  moment.  "Yes.  Is  it  she?  Good.  I  have  it.  M'sieur 
Kentucky  suggests  that  there  is  a  woman  or  a  priest  respon 
sible  for  this  act.  Perhaps  there  is  both  a  woman  and  a 
priest.  That  old  woman  has  a  son — illegitimate — who  is 
not  a  priest,  but  who  pretends  to  be  studying  for  the  priest 
hood.  I  have  often  seen  him.  He  tries  to  pose  as  a  re 
ligious  fanatic.  May  I  see  her  letter  to  you — the  one  in 
which  she  told  you  that  she  was  going  away?  I  should 
like  to  see  it  for  myself." 

It  hurt  Murdoch  to  show  it  to  him,  but  he  did. 

The  small  detective  read  it  with  a  very  serious  face  and 
said,  when  he  had  finished: 


214  LIZETTE. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  want  to  find  this  little  one. 
But  do  not  worry.  We  shall  find  her.  I  am  very  sorry 
that  I  cannot  be  with  you  in  your  journey,  but  there  are 
matters  here  in  Paris  which  will  keep  me  from  that  pleas 
ure.  It  will,  however,  be  easy.  Will  you  be  good  enough 
to  ask  the  old  woman  who  sells  coals  to  come  here  for  a 
moment?  I  should  wish  to  see  her  and  to  hear  her  talk. 
Not  that  it  is  necessary  for  her  to  see  me  and  hear  me  talk. 
Oh,  no!  Not  at  all!  I  can  be  just  invisible  somewhere. 
Most  of  the  people  about  here  know  me  by  my  face  and 
know  what  my  little  business  is.  It  makes  them  have 
embarrassment  to  talk  to  me — a  little.  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  one  in  my  business  must  live  somewhere,  and  some 
where  be  known  to  the  people  of  the  neighborhood.  It 
handicaps  him  greatly  when  it  is  that  he  has  the  work  of 
his  profession  in  that  neighborhood." 

The  small  detective  let  his  eyes  wander  about  the  room. 
They  rested  on  the  portieres  where  Lizette  had  stood  con 
cealed  that  day  when  Miss  Markleham  had  made  confes 
sion  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Ah!  It  is  very  well,"  he  went  on  with  a  satisfied  shrug 
of  his  wiry  shoulders.  "If  you  do  not  have  objections,  I 
shall  sit  just  there,  within  those  curtains,  while  you  talk 
to  the  old  woman  who  sells  coals  out  here.  She  will  know 
this  room.  It  is  evidently  where  she  brings  the  coals 
every  day  for  the  stove.  Yes,  that  will  be  a  most  excel 
lent  arrangement/'  The  small  man  paused  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  glanced  at  Kentucky.  "If  you  could  go  to  get 
her—" 

Just  then  there  was  a  sound  of  a  step  at  the  door  leading 
to  the  stairs  and  the  soft  thud  of  something  dropped  upon 
the  floor.  Then  there  came  a  knock. 

"Ah!"  said  Houlier.  "It  is  probably  the  very  person, 
come  with  the  supply.  She  has  dropped  the  bag  to  the 
floor  while  she  raps  upon  the  door."  And,  sure  enough, 
there  came  a  rap  upon  the  door.  "I  shall,  with  your  per 
mission — "  and  he  vanished  behind  the  curtains. 

Murdoch  opened  the  door  and  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  came  in  with  her  bag  of  coal  bricks.  She  was  much 
impressed  by  the  presence  of  Murdoch  and  Kentucky. 


UNRAVELING  THE  THREADS. 

She  had  only  that  morning  heard  of  their  return  to  Paris. 
She  had  been  very  busy  with  her  own  affairs,  she  said,  and 
for  two  days  had  been  scarcely  at  the  shop  herself,  at  all. 
She  gave  them  welcome  in  voluble  French.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  need  to  question  her.  She  was  so  full  of  her  sub 
ject  that  she  started  talking  of  it  without  the  least  encour 
agement  or  urging. 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  them  back.  Indeed,  but  it 
seemed  most  natural  that  they  should  be  again  in  Paris. 
Still,  the  studio  did  not  seem  natural  without  P'tite 
Madame.  They  would  pardon  her  for  saying  so,  but  with 
out  P'tite  Madame,  the  studio  seemed  quite  bare  and 
empty. 

"When  did  you  see  her  last?"  asked  Murdoch.  "We 
were  greatly  distressed  not  to  find  her  here  when  we  came. 
We  called  at  your  shop  to  ask  you,  but  we  found  it  closed. 
She  was  fond  of  you,  we  knew." 

The  old  woman  was  learned  in  the  details  of  many  of 
the  Quarter's  sordid  romances,  but  this  was  one  of  the 
strangest  variations  she  had  ever  known  of.  She  had  seen 
students  carefully  escape  from  their  entanglements  in 
Paris.  Many,  many,  many  times  she  had  known  the  men 
to  go  away  to  their  homes  beyond  the  seas,  leaving  weep 
ing  ones  behind  them.  But  this!  This  was  not  of  that 
kind. 

"Ah!"  she  said  to  Murdoch.  'This  is,  of  the  very  truth, 
the  strangest  of  all  cases.  But  it  is  most  marvellous! 
Here  is  the  case  of,  not  the  man,  but  the  girl  who  runs 
away  and  hides.  The  man — and  you  are  very  rich;  I  have 
seen  you  with  my  eyes  with  pockets  filled  with  bank  notes 
and  in  every  pocket  more  bank  notes — the  man,  in  this 
most  strange  of  cases,  is  the  one  who  seeks  and  cannot  find 
the  girl.  She  has  run  away  from  riches.  Of  a  truth,  it  is 
not  in  the  fashion  of  the  Quarter.  And  more  strange  yet 
— she  loves  you!  She  loves  you  so  that  she  must  ever 
talk  of  you — even  to  me,  the  old  woman  who  sells  coals. 
She  bought  many  coals  of  me  after  she  bought  this  new 
stove  here.  She  often  spoke  of  it,  and  always  she  seemed 
to  need—even  on  the  warmest  days — she  seemed  to  need 
ever  the  more  coal  cakes  for  it.  I  said  to  her  one  day: 


216  LIZETTE. 

"  'Madame,  you  burn  much  in  that  new  stove.  It  makea 
me  wish  that  all  my  customers  had  new  stoves  of  that  same 
kind.  It  is  a  fine  kind — for  the  old  woman  who  sells  coals. 
It  will  make  me  very  rich,  but  it  will  make  you  poor.' 

"  'Ah!'  she  said.  'I  do  not  burn  the  coal  cakes  because 
it  is  cold  weather.  They  make  my  little  fire  of  welcome 
for  him  when  he  shall  come.  It  is  so  strange  about  that 
stove.  He  is  so  afraid  that  I  shall  take  the  cold  that  he 
bids  me  ever  keep  the  fire  alight  in  the  new  stove.  Fancy 
his  having  fear  of  that  when  he  is  there  and  I  am  here, 
three  thousand  miles  away.  And  therefore  it  is  that  I  buy 
BO  many  coals.  Not  that  it  is  cold.  It  is  to  keep  alight 
the  fire  of  welcome/ 

"Oh,  la,  la!"  added  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals.  "I 
much  wish  that  I  had  many  customers  who  had  friends  like 
you,  who  feared  that  they  would  take  the  cold,  and  for 
whom  fires  of  welcome  must  be  kept  burning." 

"Did  you  know  that  she  was  going  away?"  asked  Mur 
doch. 

"Of  a  certainty.  Did  she  not  come  to  tell  me  of  it  and 
tell  me  to  keep  the  coals  here  so  that  the  concierge  might 
have  a  bright  fire  in  the  stove  for  you  when  you  should 
come?  Yes.  She  told  me  that  she  was  to  take  a  long 
journey." 

"Did  she  say  where  that  journey  was  to  carry  her?" 

"No.  I  asked  her,  but  she  would  not  tell  me.  She  was 
in  great  distress.  And  that  was  strange,  for  when  she 
took  me  in  the  cab — oh,  yes,  M'sieu,  she  took  me  for  a 
drive  with  her,  I  do  assure  you! — she  was  most  happy.  And 
afterwards,  when  we  stopped  at  the  cathedral — she  was 
happy  then,  too,  but  solemn."  The  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  looked  archly  at  John  Murdoch,  as  she  went  on.  "Oh, 
she  loves  you  very  much,  does  little  Madame.  She  made 
me  pray  for  you  there  in  the  cathedral." 

And  she  told  about  that  prayer  in  Notre  Dame.  It  is 
natural  with  the  French  to  be  impressed  by  the  dramatic, 
and  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  had  been  so  impressed 
by  that  episode  that  she  could  almost  repeat,  word  for 
word,  what  Lizette  had  told  her  to  repeat  in  that  strange 
petition  to  the  Holy  Virgin  there  in  Notre  Dame. 


UNRAVELING  THE  THREADS. 

"She  made  me  give  the  prayer  for  you/'  she  said.  "It 
was  like  this."  Carried  away  by  the  subject  and  by  the 
interest  which  her  listeners  showed,  she  dropped  to  her 
knees  and  acted  out  the  little  episode  even  to  the  repetition 
of  the  substance  of  the  prayer. 

"Do  you  know  whether  she  went  to  any  priest  to  talk 
about  the  matter?"  asked  Kentucky,  full  of  his  conviction. 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  this  question  agitated  the  old 
woman  who  sold  coals.  Her  eyes  jumped  nervously  to 
Murdoch's  face.  There  came  into  her  mind  a  vivid  pict 
ure  of  the  episode  at  the  baths,  when  he  had  ducked  the 
young  art  student  and  made  him  beg  her  pardon  on  his 
bent  and  sodden  knees.  She  realized  that  she  had  said 
too  much.  She  had  not  thought  ahead.  She  might  have 
known  that  this  question  would  be  asked  if  she  told  about 
Lizette's  sudden  access  of  religious  zeal  and  inquiry.  Age 
may  cool  the  strong  fires  of  friendship.  It  may  soften  into 
a  warm  glow,  hidden  by  gathering  ashes  of  burned  out 
passion,  the  ardor  of  conjugal  love.  But  it  never  dulls  the 
mother  love.  She  was  as  fervent  in  her  longing  to  protect 
her  son  this  day  in  the  studio  as  she  had  been  that  other 
day  upon  the  platform  of  the  baths  when  Murdoch  had 
ducked  him  in  the  Seine  and  forced  him  to  apologize  to 
her  for  having  knocked  her  teeth  out. 

She  had  forgiven  Murdoch  for  that  episode.  It  had 
been  so  wholly  done  for  her  and  had  had  such  strangely 
salutary  influence  upon  her  son's  future  treatment  of  her 
that  she  could  not  in  her  heart  fail  to  thank  the  American 
for  having  given  that  effective  lesson  to  the  one  she  loved. 
But  it  had  also  made  her  fear  Murdoch.  He  had  been  so 
merciless  and  so  complete  in  the  punishment  of  the  mis 
taken  one's  offense,  that  she  regarded  him  as  almost  the  in 
carnation  of  physical  power  and  able,  righteous  wrath.  If 
he  had  devised  those  startling  and  effective  punishments 
because  her  son  had  wronged  her — the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals — what  might  he  do  to  him  if  the  idea  gained 
force  in  his  mind  that  her  son  had  wronged  him — Mur 
doch — or  worse,  wrongly  influenced  Lizette,  the  one  he 
loved?  She  was  frightened  by  the  trap  into  which  her 
lack  of  forethought  and  her  love  of  the  dramatic,  quite 


218  LIZETTE. 

as  much  as  her  real  affection  for  Lizette  and  her  admira 
tion  of  the  man  who  loved  her,  had  led  her.  She  tried  to 
lie.  She  tried  to  say  that,  so  far  as  she  knew,  Lizette  had 
seen  no  priest.  She  tried  to  protect  her  loved  one  as  a 
mother  dog  may  strive  by  simple  strategy  to  avert  danger 
from  her  litter  and  court  it  for  herself.  She  protested 
weakly  that  she  knew  nothing  of  any  priest  who  had 
spoken  to  Lizette.  She  knew  that  she  had  gone  to  Notre 
Dame.  Yes.  Of  that  she  had  told  the  story.  But  beyond 
that — she  knew  nothing. 

The  lie  showed  in  her  face  and  in  her  manner.  Even 
Houlier,  there  behind  the  curtain,  who  knew  nothing  of 
the  episode  in  the  past,  saw  that  she  was  lying,  and  pricked 
up  his  clever  ears.  Murdoch  and  Kentucky,  who  could  see 
her  face,  saw  it  plainly,  and  the  same  thought  occurred  to 
each  of  them  at  once.  They  let  her  stutter  out  her  denials 
of  all  knowledge  of  any  conversation  with  a  priest,  and 
then  Murdoch  asked  her  where  her  son  was.  He  said 
"son"  plainly,  and  with  such  evidence  of  complete  knowl 
edge  in  his  manner  that  she  did  not  even  attempt  to  play 
her  pretty  but  transparent  little  comedy  about  her  rela 
tionship  to  the  young  man  who  had  been  ducked.  She 
did  not  even  protest  that  she  had  no  son,  and  assert  that 
the  person  who  had  knocked  her  teeth  out  on  that  dra 
matic  day  had  been  a  lodger  merely.  At  last  she  said 
she  did  not  know  just  where  he  was. 

"He  went  back  to  his  studies  for  the  priesthood,  did  he 
not,  after  he  left  the  schools?"  asked  Murdoch. 

"Well,  yes/'  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  admitted, 
with  a  voice  that  trembled.  She  was  too  proud  of  that 
fact  to  make  it  possible  for  her  to  lie  about  it.  Yes.  He 
had  gone  back  to  study  for  the  priesthood.  It  had  been  a 
great  mistake  for  him  to  turn  from  it  to  art.  He  had  been 
fitted  for  the  priesthood  by  the  Jon  Dieu. 

She  wanted  to  run  away,  but  did  not  dare.  She  knew 
that  Murdoch  could  learn  all  about  him  without  very  great 
effort,  and  she  wanted  to  know — she  wanted  to  stay  right 
there  and  learn,  then — if  he  intended  to  go  and  get  him 
by  the  collar  and  again  immerse  him  in  the  Seine. 

Murdoch  met  Kentucky  in  a  glance  of  keen  intelligence 


UNRAVELING  THE  THREADS.  219 

and  suspicion,  just  awakened.  Neither  man  had  much 
faith  in  the  ability  of  the  young  man  in  question  to  really 
become  a  holy  one.  Neither  believed  that  the  hatred  for 
Murdoch,  which  he  had  undoubtedly  gulped  in  with  the 
many  muddy  mouthfuls  of  Seine  water  which  the  strong 
one  from  America  had  made  him  drink  that  day  when  he 
really  was  not  thirsty,  had  wholly  left  his  heart  when  the 
water  left  his  stomach. 

The  old  woman  was  in  an  agony.  Her  eyes  fastened 
themselves  on  Murdoch's  hand,  that  powerful  hand  which 
had  held  her  son  so  helpless  on  that  day  after  he  had 
beaten  her.  It  still  looked  strong  and  capable — that  great 
hand  from  America. 

Kentucky  took  a  hand  in  the  questioning. 

'^Madame  Lizette,"  he  said,  slowly,  "suddenly  became 
religious  and  went  to  Notre  Dame  with  you." 

"Tes,  M'sieu,"  said  the  old  woman,  glad  to  have  the 
talk  turn  for  a  moment  away  from  what  had  seemed  so  very 
imminent.  But  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  this  was  but 
leading  up  to  what  she  dreaded. 

"Did  she  not  go  to  your  son  for  religious  counsel?" 

The  old  woman,  now  that  the  question  was  fairly  put  to 
her,  protested  wildly.  How  could  that  be  possible?  Why 
should  she  go  to  him?  He  was  not  yet  a  priest.  He  could 
not  hear  confessions  nor  impose  penance.  She  became  al 
most  incoherent  in  her  protestations,  for  ever  there  was  in 
her  eyes  the  sight  of  her  dripping  son  being  thrust  into 
the  water  by  Murdoch  and  pulled  out  again,  half  stifled. 
She  was  much  escited,  and  her  eyes  wandered  involuntarily 
to  the  muscular  hands  of  Murdoch.  They  could  get  her 
to  make  no  admissions.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  about 
to  take  refuge  in  tears. 

In  the  meantime  Houlier,  although  ignorant  of  the  gen 
eric  motive  which  made  the  woman  hesitate  about  turn 
ing  Murdoch's  resentment  again  against  her  son,  but  much 
more  clever  than  either  of  the  other  two  men  in  the  deli 
cate  art  of  getting  human  beings  to  do  things  against  their 
will,  saw  that  they  would  fail.  So  he  stepped  softly  from 
behind  the  curtains.  The  old  woman  started  and  looked 
at  him  with  horror.  This  was  a  case  where  it  was  well,  in- 


220  LIZETTE. 

stead  of  ill,  that  all  the  people  in  his  neighborhood  were 
aware  of  the  nature  of  his  work.  Heaven  knows  what  wild 
ideas  floated  through  the  old  woman's  brain  as  she  saw 
this  representative  of  the  law  appear  from  the  place  where 
it  was  evident  that  he  had  been  in  hiding.  To  her  it 
seemed  as  mysterious  as  the  action  of  the  trap-doors  in 
the  stage  seem  to  children  who  go  to  see  the  pantomime 
at  Christmas  time.  She  was  amazed,  appalled!  This  man 
represented  to  her  the  harsh  arm  of  authority.  The  sight 
of  him  brought  visions  of  the  black  wagon  in  which  pris 
oners  are  driven  to  and  from  the  courts  of  proceedings  be 
fore  judges;  yes,  of  dark  and  frowning  prison  walls.  Surely, 
there  was  nothing  in  anything  her  son  could  have  done 
in  talking  with  the  girl  which  would  justify  any  legal 
process.  She  must  say  so.  Better  to  risk  the  action  of  the 
strong  American's  fierce  hands  than  to  cast  a  suspicion  on 
her  loved  one  in  the  eyes  of  this  minion  of  the  dreaded 
law.  She  hesitated.  Houlier  spoke.  His  voice  was  soft 
and  comforting.  There  was  real  art  in  the  attitude  he  so 
readily  assumed. 

"Do  not  be  worried,  Madame,"  he  said,  with  calmness. 
"There  is  nothing  over  which  one  needs  to  worry.  When 
was  it  that  your  son  saw  and  talked  with  P'tite  Madame?" 

There  was  a  finality  about  his  assumption  that  he  had 
seen  and  talked  with  her,  and  a  frigid  fearsomeness  in  the 
way  he  spoke  of  him  as  her  son.  It  was  like  to  knowledge. 
She  had  felt  almost  helpless  with  the  others,  after  she  had 
told  them  what  she  had.  But  against  this  new  and  un 
expected  and  most  fearsome  one  she  could  not  resist  at  all. 
She  felt  it  necessary  to  defend  her  son,  but  Houlier  re 
assured  her.  He  said  that,  of  course,  if  P'tite  Madame 
had  gone  to  him  it  had  been  his  duty  to  talk  to  her.  Cer 
tainly,  none  could  blame  him  for  the  performance  of  his 
duty. 

The  old  woman  looked  tremblingly  at  Murdoch. 

If  M'sieu  would  promise  not  again  to  dip  him  in  the 
Seine!  Oh,  it  had  been  terrible  that  day  when  M'sieu  had 
dipped  him  in  the  Seine!  He  had  been  all  dampened  by 
it.  And  it  is  not  good  to  be  so  dampened!  He  had  been 
humiliated  by  it.  And  it  is  most  terrible  to  be  so  greatly 


UNRAVELING  THE  THREADS.  221 

humbled.  His  strong  spirit  could  not  endure  such  things. 
It  hurt  him  in  the  heart  of  him.  If  M'sieu  would  promise — 

So  Murdoch  promised.  But  it  was  not  much  that  the 
old  woman  could  tell.  She  admitted  that  Lizette  had  seen 
her  son,  and  asked  advice  of  him.  He  had  not  told  her 
much  about  it;  nothing,  indeed,  beyond  that  fact. 

"Where  is  he  now?"  asked  Murdoch. 

"Who  knows?"  she  answered. 

But  this  answer  would  not  do.  Houlier  took  a  brief 
hand  in  the  questioning  again.  This  terrified  her,  but 
made  her  speak.  She  admitted  that  he  was  among  those 
assisting  the  fathers  detailed  at  the  Gare  de  Lyons  to  aid 
in  sending  the  pilgrims  off  for  Lourdes. 

It  was  evident  that  she  could  tell  no  more,  so  Murdoch 
thanked  her  with  one  of  those  magical  bank  notes  of  his 
and  she  hurried  off. 

It  was  Kentucky  who  suggested  that  there  was  some 
necessity  for  haste  in  their  own  actions.  He  cleverly  be 
lieved  that  she  would  hurry  to  the  station,  repentant  of  her 
revelations,  and  that  her  son,  warned  and  reminiscent  of 
what  had  happened  to  him  once  before,  might  think  of 
duties  which  would  call  him  quickly  elsewhere. 

So  a  cab  was  called  and  the  three  men  climbed  into  it 
with  haste.  The  driver  was  induced  to  hurry  by  means  of 
certain  money  transfers  and  promises  of  others  yet  to  come, 
and  they  rattled  by  the  most  direct  routes  to  the  low  build 
ing  from  which  trains  begin  their  journey  from  Paris  to 
the  south  of  France. 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 

THE  EOAD  TO  LOUEDES. 

Their  business  at  the  station  did  not  occupy  them  long. 
As  soon  as  they  drew  up  to  the  crowded  platform,  Houlier 
directed  them  to  one  of  the  retiring  rooms,  saying  that  he 
would  bring  the  object  of  their  search  to  meet  them  there. 

It  was  astonishing  to  see  the  ease  with  which  the  small 
detective  writhed  his  way  through  the  crowd  that  blocked 
the  doors  leading  to  the  station.  It  was  plain  that  every 
gendarme  knew  him,  and  did  what  he  could  to  open  up  a 
path  for  him,  but  none  appeared  to  recognize  him.  There 
was  no  particular  necessity  for  this  minute  care  for  detail. 
But  it  was  what  would  be  done  upon  the  stage,  and  the 
French  policeman's  basic  notion  is  to  do  in  real  life  what 
would  be  done  upon  the  stage,  just  as  the  constant  effort 
of  the  new  school  of  actors  is  to  do  upon  the  stage  what 
would  be  done  in  real  life. 

Houlier  had  small  difficulty  in  finding  the  son  of  the 
old  woman  who  sold  coals  and  at  once  brought  him  to  the 
room  where  Murdoch  and  Kentucky  were  waiting.  The 
student  evidently  was  surprised  and  somewhat  discon 
certed  to  find  who  it  was  that  awaited  him,  but  he  assumed 
an  air  of  cool  insolence  toward  them  and  it  is  not  likely 
that  they  would  have  got  any  information  out  of  him  ex 
cept  for  the  presence  of  Houlier.  He  seemed  almost  as 
much  in  awe  of  the  little  destective  as  the  old  woman  had 
been.  His  mind  vividly  dwelt  upon  the  possibility  that  if 
he  proved  stubborn,  Murdoch  might  lodge  a  complaint 
against  him  for  that  knife  thrust  given  long  ago.  And 
when  Houlier  said  to  him  in  a  tone  of  polite  insistence 
that  left  room  for  only  one  answer,  "I  am  sure  that  Mon 
sieur  le  Pere  will  give  us  all  assistance  in  his  power,"  he 


THE  ROAD  TO  LOURDES.  223 

made  up  his  mind  that  it  would  be  better  to  appear  per 
fectly  frank.  Of  course,  Houlier  knew  that  he  was  not  a 
priest,  but  it  was  a  matter  of  habit  with  the  detective  to 
be  extremely  polite  when  he  was  in  search  of  information, 
so  he  addressed  the  student  as  Monsieur  le  Pere. 

In  reply  to  their  questions  the  student  admitted  that 
Madame  Lizette  had  spoken  to  him.  She  had  seemed  to 
be  in  trouble  and  sought  a  sign  from  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
She  had  asked  him  about  Lourdes  (this  was  a  lie,  but 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  quite  the  truth)  and  he 
had  told  her  that  many  went  there  and  were  rewarded 
for  the  going.  He  lied  again  by  telling  them  that  she 
had  left  that  very  morning.  It  was  his  secret  hope  that 
Murdoch  would  follow  her,  and,  on  reaching  Lourdes, 
would  find  that  she  had  returned  to  Paris,  and  so  be  put 
to  further  trouble. 

In  answer  to  questions  put  by  the  detective,  the  student 
told  him  as  well  as  might  be  how  best  to  go  about  finding 
her  when  Murdoch  should  go  to  Lourdes;  but  he  said,  with 
truth,  that  this  might  prove  to  be  a  difficult  affair.  Finally 
all  three  decided  that  they  had  learned  all  that  he  could  or 
would  tell  them  about  the  matter,  and  Houlier  told  him 
curtly  that  he  might  go.  That  was  another  of  the  small 
man's  peculiarities.  He  could  ever  mask  his  contempt 
for  an  unworthy  person  so  long  as  it  was  wise  or  politic  to 
mask  it;  but  when  that  time  passed  it  gave  him  a  certain 
satisfaction  to  speak  and  act  when  dealing  with  a  dog  in 
a  way  that  showed  that  he  knew  and  recognized  the  breed. 

It  was  arranged  that  Murdoch  and  Kentucky  should  go 
at  once  to  Lourdes.  Houlier  expressed  his  regret  that  he 
could  not  accompany  them.  There  were  matters  _here  in 
Paris  that  required  his  attention.  At  any  rate  their  task 
ought  not  to  be  difficult  as  the  crowds,  though  very  large, 
were  greatly  concentrated.  He  promised,  too,  that  he 
would  ask  the  local  police  to  assist  them,  although  it  was 
not  likely  that  they  could  be  relied  upon  for  much  help  at 
such  a  time,  as  the  incompetence  usual  to  a  provincial  po 
lice  force  was  increased  by  the  necessity  for  dealing  with 
the  throngs  that  flocked  to  the  pilgrimage. 

The  arrangements  were  quickly  made.    Kentucky  went 


224  LIZETTE. 

to  engage  their  tickets.  Houlier  arranged  to  have  a  close 
watch  kept  at  the  studio  in  case  Lizette  should  appear  be 
fore  they  returned  from  their  southern  journey.  Murdoch 
sent  some  letters  and  cables  explaining  that  his  stay  abroad 
might  be  prolonged  beyond  his  original  intentions.  Then 
he  went  to  call  on  Miss  Markleham  in  fulfilment  of  his 
promise  to  keep  her  informed  of  the  progress  of  his  search. 
She  had  evidently  schooled  herself  for  the  meeting  with 
Murdoch  and  she  showed  signs  of  real  pleasure  when  he 
told  her  that  Houlier  felt  confident  that  they  would  find 
the  little  one  without  great  difficulty  if  they  went  to 
Lourdes.  She  expressed  satisfaction  over  the  fact  that  his 
journey  would  lie  in  the  same  direction  in  which  her  aunt 
had  planned  to  have  theirs  lead,  and  it  was,  of  course,  ar 
ranged  that  they  should  make  the  trip  together. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  nothing  else  like  the  annual  pil 
grimage  to  Lourdes.  Each  year  it  occurs  in  August,  and 
sometimes  as  many  as  sixty  thousand  devout  believers 
journey  to  that  quaint  valley  in  the  foothills  of  the  Pyre 
nees,  where  Bernadotte  Soubirous  avowed  that  the  Virgin 
appeared  to  her  in  a  crevice  of  the  rocks,  and,  blessing  the 
water  which  flowed  in  a  tiny  stream  from  a  grotto  just  be 
neath  her  holy  feet,  gave  the  message  to  the  shepherd  girl 
that  there  might  the  weary  find  real  rest;  there  might  the 
sorrowful  find  everlasting  joy;  there  might  sterile  woman 
hood  be  made  fruitful;  there  might  the  sick  be  made  well 
again;  there  might  the  maimed  be  cured.  So  great  was  the 
rush  of  pilgrims  to  the  shrine,  after  the  story  had  had  the 
formal  approval  of  the  Church,  that  the  Government  it 
self  was  forced  to  take  cognizance  of  the  matter  and  as 
sume  a  certain  supervision  over  the  ecclesiastically  ar 
ranged  pilgrimages,  which,  in  going  from  Paris,  must 
travel  over  a  government  line  of  railroad.  Strange  sights 
are  seen  about  the  station  at  the  season  of  the  pilgrimage 
— strange  sights  and  pitiful.  Murdoch  and  Kentucky  had 
had  no  time  to  look  at  them  when  they  had  gone  there 
in  the  morning  with  the  detective,  but  now,  when  they 
were  forced  to  work  their  way  through  the  great  crowd, 
giving  what  measure  of  protection  was  in  their  power  to 
the  two  women,  they  looked  and  marveled,  shuddering. 


THE  ROAD  TO  LOURDES.  225 

The  government  trains,  with  their  many  sections — there 
are  officially  but  two  trains,  the  "White"  and  the  "Blue," 
so  called  from  the  color  of  the  garb  of  the  sisters  who  at 
tend  upon  the  pilgrims,  but  so  great  is  the  pilgrimage  that 
these  two  trains  are  perforce  divided  into  many  sections — 
had  been  leaving  for  three  days.  There  was  but  one  sec 
tion  to  leave,  but  that  was  slow  in  starting  and  delayed 
the  regular  passenger  train  on  which  Murdoch's  party  was 
to  leave.  Indeed,  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  self- 
important  guards  began  to  stride  up  and  down  the  station 
platform  with  their  pompous  cries  of  "en  voiture  si'l  vous 
plait"  (in  carriages,  if  you  please),  when  the  pillow  renters 
pushed  their  little  carts  along  for  the  last  time  with  their 
dismal  wailing  of  "Oreiller!  oreiller!  oreiller!"  when  the 
luncheon  vendors  and  the  beer  and  wine  sellers,  with  their 
baskets,  made  their  last  noisy  rounds,  when  the  little  men, 
who  pretend  to  sell  indecent  photographs,  but  really  ply 
a  trade  in  most  innocent  little  pictures,  and  who  have  an 
especial  eye  for  Americans  as  being  particularly  seeking 
for  wicked  things  when  they  visit  Paris,  winked  for  the 
time  their  las-t  wicked  winks  at  prospective  customers. 
But  finally,  the  long  train  started  its  slow  crawl  out  of  the 
dingy  station.  It  had  been  a  distinct  relief  for  Murdoch 
that  it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to  find  places  so  that 
the  whole  party  could  make  the  journey  in  the  same  car 
riage.  By  lavish  bribery  he  secured  a  fairly  comfortable 
location  for  the  two  women,  while  he  and  Kentucky  were 
forced  to  be  content  with  places  in  a  crowded  compart 
ment  in  another  part  of  the  train. 

The  journey  from  Paris  to  Tarascon,  where  one  must 
change  for  Lourdes,  is  but  a  weary  one  at  best.  And  be 
yond  Tarascon  the  monotony  of  the  journey  is  not  made 
much  more  bearable  by  the  occasional  sight  of  great  hills 
verging  into  mountains  and  pleasant  valleys.  But  at  the 
time  of  the  pilgrimage  this  trip  has  new  horrors  added  to 
it,  even  in  the  first-class  carriages  on  the  regular  trains, 
which  are  not  devoted  to  the  pilgrimage  by  the  manage 
ment.  There  are  prosperous  folk,  as  well  as  paupers, 
among  the  pilgrims  who  go  each  year  to  Lourdes,  and  even 
as  the  "White"  train  and  the  "Blue"  train  are  filled  by 


LIZETTE. 

those  who  must  of  necessity  travel  cheaply,  the  regular 
and  more  expensive  trains  are  crowded  by  those  whose 
money  cannot  stop  their  suffering,  or  who  must  perforce 
consult  the  Holy  Virgin  in  hope  of  surcease  from  some 
sorrow  which  the  contents  of  their  pocketbooks  has  proved 
powerless  to  assuage.  The  sick  are  everywhere.  Extra 
baggage  vans  are  added  to  the  regular  trains  to  bear  their 
special  burdens  of  sick  on  stretchers,  sick  on  mattresses, 
sick  in  wheeled  chairs,  sick  in  boxes  like  enough  to  coffins 
to  seem  strikingly  prophetic.  And  in  the  compartments  o  f 
the  passenger  carriages  are  ever  to  be  found  at  this  season 
of  the  year  large  numbers  of  the  prosperous,  and  even  some 
in  sturdy  health,  who  still  have  favors  to  beg  of  Heaven 
and  who  fear  that  their  petitions  will  remain  unanswered 
unless  the  especial  Virgin,  "Our  Lady  of  Lourdes,"  shall 
intercede  with  God  for  them. 

There  were  eight  pilgrims  in  the  compartment  in  which 
Murdoch  and  Kentucky  traveled.  All  of  them  were  in 
that  state  of  mental  excitement  which  might  reasonably  be 
expected  of  those  bound  on  such  errands  to  such  a  place 
at  such  a  time.  Two  were  a  rich  pair,  who  took  their  par 
ish  priest  with  them  as  extra  aid.  This  young  man  was 
keyed  up  to  a  great  pitch  of  emotional  intensity  by  the 
journey  and  its  object.  His  charges  each  bore  crucifixes 
richly  carved  in  ivory,  and  while  the  priest  chanted  his 
"Ave  Marias"  and  "Misericordias,"  he  held  as  high  up  as 
the  car  roof  would  permit  a  third  and  larger  image  of  the 
Christ  upon  the  cross,  to  which  the  devotions  of  the  other 
pilgrims  turned  especially. 

"Oh,  Lord!  Give  us  a  child!"  was  the  husband's  monot 
onous  utterance,  while  the  priest  chanted;  or  else  he  made 
the  responses  to  the  cleric's  prayers.  And  "Oh,  Lord! 
Grant  me  a  son!"  the  poor  wife  prayed  a  thousand  times, 
oblivious  in  her  earnestness  of  onlookers,  careless  of  every 
thing  except  the  hope  that  her  petition  might  be  heard  and 
answered  in  the  Heavens. 

It  was  impressive,  but  it  was  pitiful.  It  was  real  and 
earnest,  but  it  was  hard  for  the  Americans,  unused  to  pub 
lic  exhibition  of  emotion,  to  recognize  its  dignity.  When 
ever  the  train  stopped,  and  its  stops  were  long  and  fre- 


THE  ROAD  TO  LOURDES.  227 

quent,  there  went  up  from  all  the  carriages  a  mighty 
chant,  which  sometimes  continued  after  the  train  had 
started  on  again,  so  hearty  in  its  mighty  volume  that  it 
was  heard  above  the  roaring  wheels  and  the  rattle  of  the 
cars. 

There  was  a  skeptic  in  the  compartment,  who,  for  a  long 
time,  sat  silent  in  his  corner  and  gazed  with  scorn.  Once 
he  started  to  speak  with  sarcasm  and  laughed  boorishly. 
Then  Kentucky,  mighty  in  his  height  and  with  his  un- 
gainliness  changed  to  dignity  of  bearing,  rose  with  stretch 
ing  joints  and  told  him,  both  in  French  and  English,  to 
shut  up.  So  stern  was  the  American's  lank  face,  so  evident 
the  tenseness  of  his  muscles,  that  the  scoffing  Frenchman 
ceased  his  ridicule  and  sat  silent  in  a  corner  until  the  train 
stopped  at  a  station.  Then  he  gave  the  guard  five  francs 
to  find  for  him  a  place  in  other  and  more  congenial  com 
pany,  which,  perhaps,  was  well  for  him. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  man  and  his  wife  left 
also.  The  guard  had  found  for  them  a  place  nearer  to 
the  chanting.  Other  changes  finally  left  Kentucky  and 
Murdoch  alone  together.  Neither  one  so  much  as  dozed. 
The  delicate  imagination  of  Kentucky  and  even  the  more 
practical  mind  of  Murdoch  had  not  failed  to  be  impressed 
by  the  tremendous  spectacle  of  the  pilgrimage.  One  does 
not  need  to  be  devout,  or  even  to  believe  at  all,  to  see  the 
dignity  of  this  solemn  turning  of  the  thousands  to  their 
Maker.  And  its  pathos,  its  most  piteous  pathos,  was  every 
where  about  them.  For  many  of  those  who  make  the  pil 
grimage  it  is  their  very  last  appeal.  For  hundreds  the 
cries  which  they  will  make  before  the  grotto  will  be  the 
last  cries,  the  petitions  which  they  will  put  up  at  Lourdes 
the  last  prayers  of  Hope  almost  despairing  and  doomed 
to  bitter  disappointmet.  Doctors  have  failed,  medicines 
have  failed — everything  has  failed.  Only  the  suffering  has 
gone  on,  and  on,  and  on.  The  Virgin,  merciful  incarna 
tion  of  love,  soul  of  that  most  divine  of  human  attributes, 
motherhood,  incarnation  of  Divine  power — for  did  not 
Christ,  Himelf,  come  from  her? — may,  in  the  glory  of  her 
Heavenly  pity,  in  the  tenderness  of  that  love  for  all  hu 
manity  taught  by  her  Blessed  Son,  intercede  with  Him 


228  LIZETTE. 

to  save!  Alas!  In  most  of  the  pilgrimages  to  Lourdes 
the  number  upon  whom  she  bestows  that  grand  compassion 
seems  pitifully  small. 

Murdoch  and  Kentucky,  aliens  in  this  band  of  the  ex 
alted,  felt  free  to  talk  after  they  had  been  left  alone. 

"It  impresses  me  tremendously,"  said  Murdoch.  "Think 
b.ow  this  journey  must  have  affected  her!  Innocent,  im 
pressionable  child,  ignorant  of  most  of  the  great  truths  of 
religion,  but  familiar  with  the  gaudy  show  which  France 
makes  in  its  name,  knowing  of  its  promises  yery  dimly, 
and,  perhaps,  exaggerating  them  or  taking  them  too  liter 
ally,  impressed  by  the  fear  that  she  might  harm  me  by 
going  home  with  me,  and  tortured  by  the  anticipated  tor 
ment  of  separation  if  she  did  not,  humbled,  heart  sick  and 
confused,  such  a  trip  as  this  in  such  surroundings  is  almost 
calculated  to  drive  her  wits  away.  Oh,  it  is  pitiful  to  think 
of!" 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

THE  GREAT  PILGRIMAGE. 

The  narrow  road  to  the  village  from  the  station  at 
Lourdes  curves  down  a  steep  incline.  The  village,  strag 
gling  upward,  edges  it  with  tall  houses  so  eagerly  that 
there  is  scarcely  room  on  either  side  for  sidewalks,  and  at 
the  time  of  a  pilgrimage  what  small  space  there  is  is  ut 
terly  insufficient  to  accommodate  the  walking  crowds. 
They  swarm  into  and  fill  the  driveway  with  unfortunates, 
who  pour  in  a  black  and  gruesome  stream  from  the  car 
riages  of  the  railway  trains.  Some  walk  alone.  Some  hob 
ble  on  canes  and  crutches.  Some  stumble  dangerously 
from  weakness  after  the  hard  journey's  great  fatigue.  Many 
are  assisted  on  their  tottering  way  by  priests  and  hospital 
lers.  Hundreds  cannot  walk  at  all  and  must  be  taken  down 
in  chairs  with  wheels,  borne  prone  on  litters,  or  carried  in 
those  strange,  long  boxes  which  look  so  much  like  coffins. 
It  is  a  harvest  time  for  the  thrifty  folk  of  Lourdes,  who 
have  come  to  regard  this  influx  of  the  miserable  with 
hardened  hearts.  To  them  a  man  who  cannot  walk  is  one 
who  can,  perhaps,  pay  well  for  being  carried.  To  them  a 
woman,  gasping  in  the  throes  of  pain,  arouses  pity  in  pro 
portion  to  the  contents  of  her  purse.  They  are  not  worse 
than  other  people  in  the  main,  but  long  familiarity  with 
the  horrid  sights  of  suffering  has  bred  what  may  not  be 
contempt,  perhaps,  but  certainly  is  callousness. 

Miss  Markleham  and  her  aunt  had  engaged  rooms  by 
telegraph,  but  they  were  forced  to  walk  to  the  gray-stone 
hotel,  nearly  a  mile  away,  because  all  vehicles  were  en 
gaged  in  the  moving  of  the  pilgrims.  Murdoch  and  Ken 
tucky  went  with  them,  of  course,  and  saw  them  safe  inside 
the  doors.  Then  they  began  their  search.  The  crowds  al 
most  discouraged  them,  but  a  very  little  study  showed  them 
that  they  were,  as  Houlier  said,  concentrated  in  a  few  spots, 


230  LIZETTE. 

which  made  the  inspection  of  them  much  easier  than  it 
otherwise  might  have  been.  The  detective  had  tele 
graphed  to  the  local  police  and  Murdoch  found  a  report 
waiting  for  him  at  the  office.  They  had,  as  far  as  possible, 
investigated  the  lists  of  the  hotels,  and  had  examined  the 
returns  of  such  pensions  or  boarding  houses  as  complied 
with  the  government  regulation  that  returns  of  arriving 
and  departing  guests  shall  be  made  each  day  to  the  police. 
This  regulation  is  supposed  to  be  in  force  throughout 
France,  but  there  is  no  belief,  even  on  the  part  of  the 
police,  that  it  is  rigidly  enough  enforced  at  Lourdes,  dur 
ing  the  times  of  the  pilgrimages  to  make  its  returns  accu 
rate  records. 

Aside  from  this  they  had  done  nothing  and  this  work 
had  had  no  good  result. 

Murdoch  quickly  saw  that  he  could  look  to  them  for 
very  little  useful  help.  He  gave  them  up. 

With  Kentucky  he  started  out  to  learn,  himself,  about 
the  field  that  they  must  search  without  official  aid.  It  was 
quickly  evident  that  there  were  four  points  to  watch. 
First,  of  course,  was  the  space  before  the  grotto.  There 
the  pilgrims  swarmed.  High  up  in  a  niche  in  the  rocks 
above  the  cave  the  little  statue  of  the  Virgin  stands  robed 
in  blue  and  white  and  gold,  the  object  of  the  thousands' 
veneration.  This  seemed  to  be  the  most  likely  spot  of  all, 
and  the  two  friends  decided  that  it  was  better  for  Ken 
tucky  to  be  there  than  it  would  be  for  Murdoch  to  take  the 
post.  Lizette,  they  thought,  would  surely  make  no  effort 
to  run  away  from  old  Kentucky.  Murdoch  thought  with 
a  pang  that  she  might  try  to  run  away  from  him. 

The  Basilica  was  to  be  closely  watched  and  the  Bureau 
des  Contestationes,  where  those  who  have  been  made  the 
objects  of  healing  miracles,  hurry  to  have  their  cures  of 
ficially  investigated  and  the  proofs  recorded.  This  small 
office  is  in  an  archway  in  the  stone  incline  leading  up  to 
the  Basilica,  and,  after  a  cure,  or  the  rumor  of  a  cure,  is 
always  the  center  of  a  crowd  whose  members  press  and 
peer  and  try  to  get  stolen  glimpses  of  the  fortunate  object 
of  the  Virgin's  mercy. 

Stretching  along  the  level  ground  upon  the  Loire's  right 


THE  GREAT  PILGRIMAGE.  231 

bank  and  directly  in  front  of  the  Basilica's  lofty  perch 
upon  the  precipitous  hillside,  is  a  kind  of  park,  marked 
with  a  great  cinder  pathway,  which  curves  almost  in  the 
shape  of  an  elongated  race  track.  Within  the  further  curve 
there  rises  a  great  cross,  which,  'at  night  time,  is  illumi 
nated  with  blazing  gas,  and  shines,  a  gigantic,  flaming, 
turning  post  for  the  processions  of  taper-bearing  pilgrims, 
who  march,  chanting  with  their  myriad  of  paper-sheltered 
lighted  candles,  in  an  endless  line  around  the  course,  until 
weariness  or  weakness  brought  by  sickness,  forces  them 
to  drop  out  of  the  devotional  parade. 

Murdoch  had  no  worry  about  the  town  itself.  Lizette 
would  be  unlikely  to  loiter  among  the  unattractive  board 
ing  houses  or  the  souvenir  and  food  shops  which  principal 
ly  make  it  up.  She  had  gone  there  to  pray  and  those  who 
pray  remain  near  the  entrance  to  the  grotto,  or  in  the 
Basilica,  or  march  in  the  processions. 

During  the  two  or  three  hours  of  daylight  which  still  re 
mained  after  he  had  left  Kentucky  at  the  grotto's  mouth, 
Murdoch  made  what  search  he  could  of  hotels  and  board 
ing  houses,  but  so  great  was  the  confusion  consequent  upon 
the  vast  number  of  people  which  their  inadequate  accom 
modations  were  forced  for  these  few  days  of  the  year  only 
to  shelter,  that  he  found  that  there  was  scarcely  a  pre 
tense  among  them  of  observing  the  police  regulations,  and 
even  a  house-to-house  canvass  had  no  result  except  to 
worry  and  discourage  him. 

He  called  again  at  the  little  office  of  the  police,  but  only 
to  decide  again  that  with  their  press  of  work  they  would  be 
unlikely  to  be  of  use  to  him,  although  Houlier's  tele 
grams  had  undoubtedly  impressed  them  with  the  impor 
tance  of  the  case,  an  impression  which  Murdoch  deepened 
by  the  deposit  with  the  officer  in  charge  of  some  of  those 
wondrous  banknotes  which  had  so  impressed  the  old 
woman  who  sold  coals. 

The  crowds  were  terrible  and  crushing  in  their  magni 
tude  and  in  the  selfishness  born  of  complete  earnestness. 
Murdoch  wandered  from  place  to  place  and  watched 
strange  faces  until  his  eyes  were  tired  with  his  anxious 
looking.  Then  he  went  to  find  Miss  Markleham  and  her 


232  LIZETTE. 

aunt  and  took  them  to  the  grotto,  in  accordance  with  the 
engagement  which  they  had  made  on  their  arrival. 

When  night  fell,  dark  and  damp,  upon  the  village  and 
its  restless  crowds  of  devotees,  Murdoch  placed  himself 
near  to  the  turning  point  of  the  procession  at  the  blazing 
cross.  The  pilgrims  marched  in  pairs,  with  their  proces 
sion  often  broken  by  some  weak  and  weary  one  who  could 
not  keep  up,  and,  lagging,  delayed  those  who  were  behind. 
There  were  all  sorts  and  all  conditions  in  the  endless  line, 
from  the  refined  women  of  the  old  regime  in  France,  who 
walked  with  innate  grace  and  faces  closely  veiled,  to  the 
crippled  peasant  from  the  mountains  whose  presence  there 
had,  perhaps,  for  years  before,  necessitated  such  scant  ex 
penditure  on  other  things  that  the  suppliant's  clothes  hung 
in  ragged  testimony  to  the  sacrifices  he  had  made,  and 
whose  face  showed  traces  of  starvation. 

There  were  those  who  had  taken  strange  and  uncouth 
vows,  such  as  to  let  their  hair  or  beards  grow  without  the 
touch  of  comb  or  scissors,  until  they  should  present  their 
prayers  to  the  Holy  One  at  Lourdes. 

One  man  bore  upon  his  back  a  great  rough  timber  cross, 
and,  in  devotion  which  seemed  like  most  horrible  irrever 
ence  to  the  onlooker,  wore  upon  his  brow  a  wreath  of 
thorns  which  had  torn  his  forehead's  skin  until  the  blood, 
not  washed  away  for  many  weeks,  had  covered  his  whole 
face  and  neck  and  made  him  a  frightful  object.  He  had 
marched  with  the  burden  and  the  disfiguring  chaplet,  all 
the  way  from  Calais,  in  the  North  of  France,  and  had  been 
months  upon  the  road.  Behind  him  came  his  two  brothers, 
both  grown  men,  who  carried  between  them  a  handled 
box  in  which  lay  their  little  sister,  a  paralytic.  Marching 
next  to  them  were  the  father  and  the  mother,  aged  peas 
ants,  bowed  by  woe  and  the  awful  effort  of  the  journey, 
with  eyes  uplifted  and  trembling  limbs,  chanting  their 
Ave  Marias  with  voices  shaking  from  emotion.  This  dread 
ful  family  party,  sublime  in  its  grotesque  devotion,  touched 
Murdoch  deeply.  They  made  the  circuit  of  the  long  path 
thrice  and  then  dropped  out,  unable  to  bear  their  burdens 
farther  for  the  time,  and  rested  in  complete  exhaustion  on 
the  grass  not  far  from  Murdoch. 


THE  GREAT  PILGRIMAGE.  233 

He  spoke  to  them. 

Only  the  one  who  bore  the  cross  would  answer  him.  The 
others,  wrapt  in  the  fervor  of  their  prayers  and  medita 
tion,  probably  did  not  even  hear  him. 

He  asked  this  man  when  they  had  eaten  last. 

It  had  been  a  long  time. 

He  asked  him  how  they  would  get  back  to  their  far 
distant  home. 

The  way  they  came,  he  thought,  unless  the  Blessed 
Virgin  found  for  them  an  easier  one. 

He  said  that  the  old  man  and  woman  seemed  almost 
exhausted. 

Oh,  yes.  They  had  not  slept  or  eaten  since  the  day  be 
fore. 

He  asked  if  they  would  accept  a  gift  of  money  from  him. 

They  would  accept  it  gladly  and  with  gratitude. 

Murdoch  gave  the  money  to  the  one  who  bore  the  cross 
and  he  spoke  to  the  others  of  the  gift.  They  looked  at 
Murdoch  gratefully  and  said  a  prayer  for  him. 

Then  the  one  who  bore  the  cross  struggled  painfully 
away,  with  the  money  tightly  clenched  within  his  hand. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  he  came  back.  His  face  was  lighted 
by  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  but  Murdoch  noticed  that  he 
brought  back  no  food.  A  glance  at  the  mother's  face  made 
the  American  fear  that  if  she  did  not  have  some  sustenance 
other  than  religious  fervor  soon,  she  would  fall  fainting 
where  she  sat.  He  asked  the  messenger,  who  had  taken 
the  money  away  with  him,  where  the  food  was.  He  must 
give  it  to  the  old  woman  quickly  and  perhaps  a  drop  of 
wine  might  keep  her  from  fainting. 

The  man  looked  at  Murdoch  in  surprise. 

Food?  Wine?  He  had  bought  no  food  and  wine.  He 
had  used  the  money  to  buy  candles  to  burn  before  the 
shrine  within  the  grotto.  They  had  not  come  to  Lourdes 
to  eat  and  drink.  They  had  come  to  pray! 

And  all  the  time  the  procession,  with  its  chanting  thou 
sands,  was  winding  slowly  past,  around  the  cross  and  back 
to  the  Basilica,  around  the  cross  and  back  to  the  Basilica. 

Sometimes  a  little  section  of  it  stopped,  while  the  hos 
pitallers  took  some  person  who  had  fainted  and  bore  Mm 


234  LIZETTE. 

back  with  them  into  the  village  on  a  litter.  Once  during 
the  evening  they  carried  back  with  them  a  woman  wh«  was 
dead.  The  other  pilgrims  saw  that  she  was  dead  as  she  was 
carried  past  them,  but  it  had  no  effect  upon  their  fervor 
except,  perhaps,  to  heighten  it.  The  Holy  One  had 
answered  her  poor  pravers  with  the  gift  of  everlasting  rest. 
Hail  Holy  One! 

And  the  slow  march  went  on  to  the  solemn  music  of  the 
chanting  thousands. 

These  and  many  other  sadnesses,  Murdoch  saw  and 
marvelled  over.  All  kinds  of  men  and  women  passed  be 
fore  him  in  a  strange,  moving  show,  almost  incredible  in 
its  weird  variety.  But  search  as  he  would,  he  could  never 
see  that  one  face  for  which  he  looked  so  earnestly.  His 
eyes  smarted  from  continued  staring  in  the  flickering  light. 
The  candles  of  the  passing  devotees  sometimes  seemed  to 
make  the  marchers  dance  up  and  down  before  him  as  they 
passed,  sometimes  they  seemed  to  jump  forward  with  a 
jerk  as  they  reached  his  station  and  fall  back  again  into 
their  accustomed  pace  only  after  they  had  passed  him  by. 

Three  times  as  the  strange  line  of  pilgrims  slowly 
passed  before  him,  he  thought  he  saw,  far  down  the  line,  a 
face  or  figure  which  seemed  to  him  like  that  he  looked  for. 
But  three  times  he  was  disappointed. 

There  was  in  his  heart  the  constant  fear  that  some  per 
son  might  pass  him  without  inspection.  There  were  so 
many  of  them  and  the  light  was  so  uncertain !  The  mental 
strain  told  upon  him  and  the  fear  that  it  might  make  him 
careless  in  his  inspection  of  the  throng  became  a  constant 
worry. 

One  figure,  veiled  heavily  and  marching  with  bowed 
head,  twice  attracted  him  as  it  passed  by  its  similarity  to 
hers  and  he  almost  stepped  up  to  call  her  name  when  it 
appeared  the  third  time,  but  by  chance  the  veil  was  raised 
before  he  spoke  and  he  saw  that  he  had  been  .mistaken. 

The  procession  passed  and  passed  in  all  its  show  of  grief 
and  horrid  suffering,  of  faith  and  high  devotion.  The 
great  bells  of  the  Basilica  had  chimed  for  eleven  o'clock 
before  the  dimming  of  the  lights  upon  the  Cross  made  the 
procession  break  up  and  swarm  back  again  to  the  space  be- 


THE  GREAT  PILGRIMAGE.  335 

fore  the  grotto.  He  went  with  the  crowd  and  wormed  his 
way  among  its  members,  searching  ever,  searching  vainly. 

Many  were  too  tired  to  follow  the  slow  and  solemn 
march  of  the  procession  with  a  night  of  prayer  before  the 
grotto,  but  enough  persisted  in  their  purpose  of  petition 
to  pack  the  small  space  tightly.  Murdoch  found  Ken 
tucky  there.  The  old  student  was  tired  by  the  strain,  but 
the  excitement  and  enthusiasm  of  the  scene  and  its  strange 
actors  had  keyed  him  to  a  pitch  of  high  intensity,  and,  al 
though  Murdoch  urged  it,  he  would  not  go  back  to  the 
hotel  to  sleep.  Miss  Markleham  was  there  with  her  aunt 
and,  like  Kentucky,  she  was  much  excited  by  it  all,  and  her 
eyes  gazed  solemnly  from  deep  hollows.  The  aunt,  much 
less  affected  in  reality,  pretended  to  be  more  so,  and  re 
mained  kneeling  on  the  stones  while  her  niece  talked  to 
Murdoch.  It  was  midnight  before  the  ladies  went  to  their 
hotel,  and  before  they  left  Miss  Markleham  called  Mur 
doch  to  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  where  the  flickering  glare 
from  the  myriads  of  candles  cast  dancing  shadows.  She 
said  nothing  to  him  at  first,  but  looked  into  his  eyes  and 
smiled  a  sadly  solemn  little  smile. 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you  both,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  often 
pray.  Before  I  learned  of  your  distress,  I  thought  of 
Lourdes  with  curiosity  and  not  devotion.  But  I  have 
prayed  to-night,  prayed  earnestly  for  you  and  for  your 
little  one.  Good  night/' 

She  touched  his  hand  and  vanished. 

There  were  good  things  in  Mary  Markleham.  Her 
efforts  to  help  the  man  she  loved  find  poor  Lizette  had  in 
ihem  some  of  the  nobility  of  martyrdom. 

Murdoch  kneeled  beside  Kentucky  at  a  bench.  The  space 
before  the  grotto  was  still  crowded,  as  the  clock  in  the 
Basilica  tower  struck  midnight.  The  priests'  bells  tinkled 
every  fifteen  minutes  before  they  said  their  prayers. 

There  were  some  dramatic  incidents.  A  woman  fell 
before  the  iron  gate  which  bars  the  crowd  out  from  the 
grotto  and  writhed  there  on  the  stones  in  frightful  pain. 
A  priest  hurried  to  her  and  gave  her  the  last  sacrament 
before  ehe  died.  Then  hospitallers  took  her  wasted  form 
away.  Her  prayers  were  answered. 


236  LIZETTE. 

Sometimes  the  pilgrims  whispered  to  each  other  in  the 
pauses  of  devotion.  There  was  a  story,  which  gained  detail 
as  it  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  of  a  cure  that  afternoon. 
The  pilgrims  grasped  it  eagerly  and  rolled  the  tale  beneath 
their  tongues  with  deep  soul-hunger.  It  lacked  certain 
confirmation  and  the  anxious  one,  unable  to  control  his 
longing  for  the  truth  about  it,  made  a  journey  to  the 
Bureau  des  Contestationes,  from  which  he  returned  with 
the  news  that  the  doors  were  locked.  This  seemed  strange 
and  doubtful  to  another  pilgrim.  Was  not  the  Blessed 
Virgin  as  likely  to  make  cures  at  night  as  during  day? 
He  could  not  believe  that  the  Bureau's  doors  were  locked. 
There  must  be  some  mistake.  He  went,  himself,  to  see. 
Returning,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  confirmed  the  first 
Yes,  the  doors  were  locked. 

This  seemed  to  damp  the  hope  of  some  and  they  got  up 
from  their  knees  and  went  away  to  sleep,  perhaps  to  hotels 
and  boarding  houses,  perhaps  to  that  barren  shelter  which 
the  Church  furnishes  without  charge  to  those  who  cannot 
pay.  By  three  o'clock  there  were  no  more  than  fifty  left 
before  the  grotto.  By  five,  most  of  these  had  gone,  and 
with  them  Murdoch  went.  He  knew  Lizette  was  not 
among  them  and  he  woke  Kentucky,  whose  head  had  sunk 
in  slumber  on  a  bench  beside  which  he  was  kneeling.  To 
have  stood  among  those  pilgrims  would  have  seemed  like 
sacrilege. 

They  made  their  plans  as  they  went  to  their  hotel.  Ken 
tucky  was  to  sleep  till  noon.  He  agreed  to  this  reluctantly, 
and  only  because  he  knew,  himself,  that  it  was  necessary. 
His  great  and  overpowering  weariness  told  him  too  plainly 
that  he  could  not  stand  such  strain  as  ably  as  the  younger 
man. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FACE  TO  FACE. 

Murdoch  was  out  and  again  before  the  grotto  by  nine 
o'clock.  His  sleep  had  been  restless  and  disturbed. 
In  the  room  adjoining  his  some  poor  consumptive  strug 
gled  with  a  racking  cough.  As  he  went  out  into  the  little 
garden  back  of  the  hotel  to  get  his  morning  coffee,  he  met 
a  group  of  hospitallers  carrying  that  sort  of  burden  which 
is  so  often  seen  at  Lourdes  at  times  of  pilgrimages.  It  was 
the  body  of  the  one  who  in  the  night  had  coughed,  the 
waiter  told  him.  There  is  a  pilgrims'  cemetery  there  at 
Lourdes,  and  it  has  many  occupants. 

The  second  day  passed  as  the  first  had  passed.  Murdoch 
kept  in  telegraphic  commuication  with  Houlier.  They 
both  considered  it  most  likely  that  if  Lizette  should  go 
away  from  Lourdes  she  would  return  to  Paris,  and  neither 
one  believed  that  she  could  go  there  without  at  least  a 
visit  to  the  studio.  So  Houlier  had  the  place  watched 
constantly.  But  his  message  brought  no  good  news  to 
Murdoch. 

Murdoch  watched  the  grotto.  The  first  keen  impres 
sions  of  the  place  had  begun  thus  soon  to  be  dulled  in  him. 
Denied  the  vivid  intensity  of  religious  fervor  and  with  the 
dramatic  instincts  of  his  artist  nature  cloyed  within  him 
from  too  much  feeding  on  the  sights  of  yesterday,  the 
spectacle  became  monotonous.  He  called  at  the  office  of 
the  police.  They  were  polite,  but  had  no  news.  Their  en 
ergies  were  centered  on  a  search  for  pickpockets,  who  had 
come  down  from  Paris  in  an  organized  gang  to  wring 
plunder  from  the  pilgrims.  They  had  not  found  Lizette. 

He  went  to  the  Basilica.  There  were  few  worshippers 
within,  and  Lizette  was  not  among  them.  Before  the 


238  LIZETTE. 

grotto  the  crowds  were  becoming  dense,  but  they  were 
still  thin  enough  so  that  he  could  search  among  them  and 
feel  when  he  had  finished  what  satisfaction  he  could  get 
out  of  the  conviction  that  the  small  one  was  not  among 
them. 

The  strain  had  made  his  face  look  pale,  and  he  knew  that 
his  eyes  were  surrounded  by  great  yellow  hollows.  At  noon 
Kentucky  joined  him.  The  old  student  looked  pitifully 
weak  and  tired,  and  acted  like  a  discouraged  man,  but 
tried  to  smile  and  appear  hopeful  when  he  saw  the  marks 
of  weariness  and  worry  on  the  face  of  Murdoch. 

It  was  afternoon  before  Miss  Markleham  and  her  aunt 
appeared.  They  asked  no  questions.  The  faces  of  the  two 
friends  answered  them,  unspoken.  They  did  not  even  stop 
to  talk  to  Murdoch.  Miss  Markleham  looked  tired,  as  if 
her  night,  too,  had  passed  without  a  right  allowance  of 
restful  sleep.  She  smiled  faintly  at  Murdoch  and  kneeled 
with  her  aunt  at  a  bench  close  to  the  grotto. 

The  sun  beat  hot  upon  the  bowed  heads  of  the  pilgrims. 
An  early  morning  shower  had  left  small  pools  of  water 
standing  in  the  hollows  of  the  stones  which  paved  the 
space  before  the  grotto.  But  no  one  cared  for  this,  and  by 
ten  o'clock  the  space  was  filled  by  praying  thousands.  The 
priests'  bell  tinkled  as  they  said  the  masses.  The  sisters 
passed  among  the  people,  giving  comfort  to  the  anxious 
ones.  Sometimes  they  kindly  cared  for  some  woman  who 
had  fainted.  Sometimes  they  bore  out  of  the  crowd  some 
little  one  whose  weakness  could  no  longer  stand  the  strain. 
Once  or  twice  a  great  chorus  started  and  for  a  time  echoed 
up  against  the  towering  rocks  above  for  a  few  moments, 
to  give  way  to  that  strange,  whisper-pierced  silence  of  the 
multitude  which  had  preceded  it. 

Murdoch,  as  he  knelt,  scanned  faces  eagerly.  He  was  to 
situated  that  he  could  see  those  who  came  and  those  who 
went,  but  those  in  front  of  him  kept  their  faces  ever  to 
ward  the  grotto  and  were  a  tantalizing  mystery.  Some 
times  there  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  curve  of  a 
kneeling  figure's  form  which  seemed  to  him  like  Lizette's, 
and  with  infinite  pains  he  worked  through  the  crowd,  al 
ways  on  his  knees,  as  was  most  necessary,  until  he  could 


FACE  TO  FACE.  239 

satisfy  himself  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  And  that  sat 
isfaction  ever  came  too  soon. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  morning  he  left  his  post  for 
Kentucky  to  keep  watch  of  and  made  again  the  rounds  of 
the  Basilica,  the  police  station  and  the  railroad  depot.  But 
each  time  he  returned  to  the  space  before  the  grotto,  still 
without  news. 

The  monotony  of  the  chants,  and  the  great  weariness, 
which  came  from  the  really  tremendous  physical  strain  of 
the  week  past,  had  tired  him  almost  beyond  endurance,  and 
he  often  drowsed  as  he  kneeled,  to  come  to  full  conscious 
ness  with  little  starts  of  fear  that  he  had  slept,  and  that 
while  he  slumbered  she  might  have  come  and  gone.  It  was 
during  one  of  these  periods  of  semi-consciousness  that  he 
was  roused  by  a  touch  upon  his  arm,  and  found  Miss  Mar- 
kleham  kneeling  close  beside  him.  He  had  not  seen  her 
come,  yet  he  had  had  no  knowledge  that  he  had  been 
asleep.  Her  grasp  tightened  on  his  arm.  She  bowed  her 
head,  but  still  looked  up  at  him  and  placed  her  fingers  on 
her  lips.  She  leaned  toward  him  and  whispered. 

"Don't  get  up.  Don't  say  anything.  I  have  found  her. 
She  is  over  there." 

Miss  Markleham  pointed  with  her  hand  held  low  behind 
a  pilgrim's  back. 

"I  am  sure  that  it  is  she,"  she  continued,  tensely.  "I 
saw  her  face  quite  plainly  and  it  is  the  face  of  'Parting.' 
She  is  kneeling  by  a  bench.  There  is  a  vacant  place  beside 
her.  Go  there  and  kneel  by  her.  It  will  be  an  answer  to 
her  prayers." 

Slowly,  Murdoch  worked  his  way  through  the  great 
crowd.  Miss  Markleham  crept  on  her  knees  behind  him. 
She  pointed  out  to  him  the  figure  that  she  meant.  He  gave 
her  a  great  and  glowing  glance  of  gratitude.  It  was 
Lizette. 

Sometimes  he  could  not  see  her  as  he  worked  along 
upon  his  knees.  His  progress  was  tormenting  in  its  slow 
ness.  But  each  time  that  he  came  into  a  position  where 
her  figure  was  not  hidden  by  intervening  worshippers,  the 
certainty  grew  in  him  that  it  was  she.  Slowly,  slowly, 
slowly,  he  worked  his  way  until  scarcely  twenty  feet  inter- 


240  LIZETTE. 

vened  between  them.  Miss  Markleham's  plan  appealed  to 
him.  The  small  one  had  come  to  Lourdes  to  pray,  and  he 
knew  that  all  her  prayers  were  for  him,  and  that  the  great 
est  answer  which  she  begged  so  humbly  of  the  Blessed  Vir 
gin  was  assurance  that  without  endangering  his  happiness 
she  might  turn  to  him  and  cling  forever  to  him.  Her 
head  was  bowed.  Her  hands  were  clasped  before  her.  A 
moving  figure  shut  her  from  his  sight  for  a  second,  and 
when  it  passed  her  head  was  raised,  her  hands  stretched 
out  in  supplication  to  that  statue  of  the  Virgin  above  her 
and  before  her.  She  dropped  them. 

A  woman  who  was  between  her  and  Murdoch  was  moan 
ing  with  a  fervor  which  increased.  Slowly  many  turned 
to  see  what  caused  the  strange  sounds  that  came  from  her. 
Her  hands  were  upraised,  and  on  her  face  there  was  a  look 
of  ecstasy.  She  seemed  to  be  slowly  rising  from  her  knees 
without  the  movements  ordinary  to  such  an  effort.  The 
worshippers,  disturbed  by  the  tremulous  intensity  of  the 
strange  sound  which  she  made,  a  quivering,  shaking  trem 
olo,  which  might  be  either  a  note  of  overwhelming  joy 
or  the  last,  half-hushed,  despairing  cry  of  one  who  per 
ished,  turned  toward  her. 

Lizette,  attracted  by  the  sound,  as  were  the  others, 
turned  and  looked,  and,  as  she  looked,  saw  Murdoch.  A 
great  light  came  into  her  face.  First,  a  flushing  red  swept 
over  it.  Then  came  a  startling  pallor.  Then  the  red 
again. 

Murdoch  stretched  his  arms  out  toward  her.  The  tense 
excitement  of  his  own  drama  took  his  interest  away  from 
that  woman  who  was  now  rising,  rising;  with  that  strange, 
unnatural  movement  that  seemed  not  to  be  the  ordinary 
work  of  human  muscles.  He  called  aloud: 

"Lizette!" 

She  answered  him: 

"Oh,  Pudgy!" 

She  almost  rose  with  arms  outstreched  to  go  to  him. 
What  quick  thoughts  flashed  themselves  through  that  sim 
ple,  loving  brain  in  those  few  seconds!  Surely,  the  Virgin 
Mary  had  answered  all  her  prayers,  had  sent  her  dear  one 
to  her  as  the  greatest  and  most  satisfying  of  all  answers! 


FACE  TO  FACE.  241 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Murdoch's  face  with  an  ecstasy 
almost  as  great  as  the  uncanny  expression  of  that  other 
woman's  eyes,  who  was  now  slowly,  slowly,  rising  up  be 
tween  them. 

Lizette  stretched  out  her  arms  toward  him,  and  as  she 
did  so,  the  other  one,  who  had  not  stood  for  twenty  years, 
rose  wholly,  with  a  queer,  piercing  cry. 

"Je  suis  gu-e-r-i-e — Je  suis  g-u-e-r-i-e !" 

She  shrieked  it  slowly  between  tense  lips  and  waved  her 
arms.  She  had  risen  exactly  between  the  lovers,  and  stood 
there  with  arms  stretched  wildly  out  as  if  she  threw  away 
the  sickness  which  had  so  long  oppressed  her. 

For  a  moment  the  crowd  stopped  where  it  was,  as  if  in 
petrification.  Then,  with  a  wild  shout  of  "La  guerison!" 
"La  guerison  f"  (the  cure!  the  cure!)  it  rushed  madly  up  to 
crowd  around  the  object  of  the  miracle.  Murdoch  had 
scarcely  comprehended.  His  own  joy  was  so  great  that  he 
could  not  have  eyes  or  ears  for  anything  besides  it.  And 
as  he  paused  the  crowd  rushed  over  him  and  bore  him 
down. 

He  saw  Lizette's  arm  drop,  and  saw  her  face  change 
from  joy  to  despair  as  she  looked  beyond  him,  and  then 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  made  him  shield  his  face 
and  eyes  from  maddened  feet. 

He  was  in  real  danger,  for  the  crowd  was  frantic.  A 
dozen  men  and  women  swept  over  him.  It  was  Miss 
Markleham,  who  was  just  behind  him  and  who  had  al 
ready  risen  to  her  feet,  who  made  them  keep  a  little  clear 
of  him.  She  even  helped  him  rise  by  putting  down  her 
hands  to  him.  He  struggled,  dazed  and  dirty,  to  his  feet. 

In  his  rising  he  had  turned  around,  and  when  he  turned 
back  to  where  Lizette  had  been  there  was  a  sea  of  faces 
there  in  which  he  could  not  see  her  face  at  all.  There  was 
a  struggling  swarm  of  bodies  there,  but  he  could  not  see 
among  them  the  small  and  delicate  form  he  hungered 
for. 

Almost  in  a  twinkling  the  place  was  cleared  of  all  ex 
cept  the  wholly  helpless  and  himself  and  Mary  Markleham. 
Everyone  who  had  the  strength  to  run  was  panting  in 
pursuit  of  the  weird  figure  of  the  risen  one,  who  trailed 


24:2  LIZETTE. 

her  long  wraps  behind  her  and  ran  screaming  with  a  joy 
almost  demoniacal  toward  the  Bureau  des  Contefitationes. 
Only  he  and  Mary  Markleham  remained,  with  puzzled 
eyes,  watching  the  crowd  as  it  hurried  on  its  frantic  way, 
pursued  by  a  great  column  of  yellow  dust,  following  the 
object  of  the  miracle. 

In  that  little  moment  he  had  lost  Lizette  again,  and  he 
could  not  find  her  anywhere.  The  rushing  crowd  had 
swept  her  with  it  while  he  struggled  on  the  stones  to  get 
his  footing.  It  was  like  a  disappearance  of  a  fairy  on  the 
stage.  He  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  it. 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Miss  Markleham. 

"She  was  there,"  said  Murdoch,  pointing.  "She  was 
just  there  when  the  crowd  pushed  me  over.  But  when 
I  rose  and  turned  she  had  gone.  She  must  have  been 
carried  with  it." 

Murdoch  hurried  to  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  which 
surged  about  the  office  of  the  doctors  who  are  supposed 
to  pass  on  miracles  and  attest  to  them.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  penetrate  it.  He  did  not  believe  that  she  had 
been  carried  into  its  inner  circles.  It  would  have  been  al 
most  impossible  for  her  to  have  been  swept,  unwillingly, 
so  far  from  where  she  had  been  kneeling  when  he  saw  her 
just  before  he  fell. 

Kentucky  and  Miss  Markleham  were  with  him.  They 
watched  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  until,  disintegrat 
ing  and  disappearing  like  sugar  in  warm  water,  it  had  gone. 
Most  of  those  who  had  so  madly  rushed  to  the  Bureau  in 
the  wake  of  the  woman  who  had  known  the  miracle,  went 
back  to  the  grotto  to  pray  with  renewed  fervor.  Many 
gathered  about  the  grounds  in  small  groups  to  talk  about 
the  wonder  before  they  returned  to  their  own  devotions, 
to  marvel  over  it  and  to  get  new  hope  from  it,  but  nowhere 
could  they  find  trace  of  the  little  one  whom  they  sought  so 
earnestly.  It  came  with  almost  as  great  a  shock  as  had 
been  the  first  quick  knowledge  that  she  had  run  away  when 
Murdoch  read  her  note  in  the  studio  in  Paris. 


CHAPTEE  XXVI, 

MISS  MARKLEHAM  AGAIN. 

Again  the  weary  search  began. 

Kentucky  was  dismayed  by  this  new  and  most  myste 
rious  disappearance.  He  could  not  understand  it,  nor 
could  Murdoch. 

Miss  Markleham's  presence  was  demanded  by  the  aunt, 
who  professed  entire  exhaustion  after  the  excitement  of 
the  miracle. 

Miss  Markleham  really  knew  what  had  happened,  and 
she  was  glad  that  her  aunt  was  so  nervous  that  she  could 
not  leave  her.  She  shrunk  from  seeing  Murdoch.  There 
was  an  agony  in  her  mind  such  as  a  criminal  might  feel  at 
the  prospect  of  meeting  the  one  who  suffered  through  his 
crime.  She  had  not  wronged  him  knowingly — but  yet, 
but  yet — she  could  not  look  at  his  sorrow-stricken  face 
without  a  feeling  of  deep  guilt. 

She  had  seen  the  expression  of  Lizette's  eyes  just  before 
the  crowd  rushed  up  between  her  and  her  loved  one  as  it 
cast  Murdoch  down.  She  had  seen  that  look  of  joy  on 
Lizette's  face  as  the  small  one  caught  sight  of  Murdoch 
and  had  seen  it  change  to  worry  and  then  almoit  to  terror, 
as  the  eyes  caught  sight  of  her — Miss  Markleham. 

Lizette's  face  had  been  very  white  as  if  from  physical 
exhaustion  when  she  had  first  seen  her  and  before  the 
little  one  had  known  that  they  were  there.  It  had  been 
strained  and  worried  in  its  look  with  that  same  extraordi 
nary  intensity  of  expression  which  seemed  to  mark  the 
faces  of  all  the  pilgrims,  a  look  which  Miss  Markleham  had 
never  seen  before  and  which  she  recognized  through  the 
intensity  of  her  own  great  love,  unsatisfied  and  hopeless. 

In  her  heart  she  had  known  that  it  had  been  her  own 


244  LIZETTE. 

presence  which  had  changed  that  look  of  joy  ineffable  that 
had  come  to  Lizette's  face  when  first  she  had  caught  sight 
of  Murdoch.  Her  woman's  sympathies  and  intuitions 
were  quicker  even  than  Murdoch's  understanding,  born  of 
love.  She  tried  to  piece  together  in  her  own  mind  the 
emotions  which  must  have  filled  Lizette's  heart,  and  she 
was  more  accurate  in  her  thinking  than  she  dreamed.  She 
was  certain  that  Lizette  had  come  to  Lourdes  to  pray  about 
John  Murdoch,  that  she  had  been  waiting  for  the  answer 
to  her  prayer  while  she  knelt  before  the  grotto  and  when 
they  approached.  Miss  Markleham  could  see  how  John 
Murdoch's  presence  there  had  at  first  been  taken  by 
Lizette  for  the  very  greatest  and  most  satisfying  of  all 
answers  to  her  prayers.  That  explained  the  look  of 
supreme  joy  which  flashed  across  her  face  when  first  she 
saw  him.  But  she  could  also  see  how  the  fact  that  she  was 
there  with  Murdoch  might  have  been  taken  by  the  small 
one  for  a  later  and  more  complete  answer,  a  crushing, 
horrifying  answer  which  crushed  her  hopes  and  left  her 
bruised  and  broken  in  her  spirit  and  with  bleeding  heart. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "that  I 
should  hate  a  God  that  gave  me  such  reply  in  such  a  way!" 

She  shrunk  within  her  soul  as  she  tried  to  paint  the 
agony  of  Lizette's  inward  being  when  the  conviction  came 
upon  her  that  her  prayer  was  answered,  answered  with 
denial  of  the  boon  she  craved. 

She  recalled  with  intense  vividness  the  change  which 
had  come  in  the  expression  of  Lizette's  face  as  she  caught 
sight  of  her — Miss  Markleham — on  her  knees  behind  Mur 
doch  and  moving  with  him.  It  must  have  been  more  than 
startling  to  the  little  one  to  see  him  there  at  all.  It  is  not 
likely  that  it  had  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  find 
whence  she  had  flown  in  her  distress  of  soul,  and  that  an 
answer  to  her  prayer  should  come  in  the  form  of  his  actual 
presence  there  probably  had  not  been  among  her  most  ex 
travagant  speculations.  The  sight  of  him  when  she  was 
in  that  state  of  mental  exaltation,  which  her  face  plainly 
showed  had  hold  of  her  at  the  moment  of  the  meeting, 
must  have  been  a  great  and  joyful  shock.  She  must  have 
thought  it  quite  as  much  a  miracle  as  any  cure  could  be. 


MISS  MARKLEHAM  AGAIN.  $45 

And  then  to  see  behind  him,  there  at  Lourdes,  where  she 
had  gone  to  ask  the  Virgin  for  a  sign,  the  very  one,  the 
only  one  who  in  her  mind  might  have  a  better  claim  on 
him  than  she,  must  have  been  not  other  than  uncanny. 
That  the  small  one  might  easily  take  this  for  an  answer 
from  the  Virgin,  Miss  Markleham  quickly  realized.  She 
had  prayed  for  Murdoch,  had  that  little  one,  and  in  answer 
to  her  prayer  the  Virgin  brought  him  to  her,  but  in  bring 
ing  him  she  also  brought  the  very  one,  who,  unwittingly, 
had  come  between  them.  Would  not  the  little  one  believe 
all  this  to  be  a  special  manifestation? 

In  her  room  at  the  stuffy  little  hotel,  Miss  Markleham 
wrote  a  note  to  Murdoch.  She  told  him  that  she  feared 
her  presence  had  made  Lizette  run  away  from  him  and 
outlined  delicately  her  theory  of  the  other's  feelings.  She 
told  him  that  she  should  leave  Lourdes  the  next  morning 
and  told  him  that  she  hoped  he  would  not  come  to  see  her 
before  she  went.  It  was  a  very  serious  note,  and  in  it 
Miss  Markleham  told  him  what  she  thought  was  true,  that 
while  she  had  in  her  mind  no  wish  but  to  serve  him,  Fate 
seemed  to  have  designed  another  part  for  her  so  long  as  she 
should  be  where  he  was.  So  she  should  go  away.  Her 
aunt  opposed  her  going,  but  she  should  insist.  She  had 
not  helped  him  in  his  search,  although  her  efforts  had  been 
real  and  honest.  She  should  not  again  allow  herself  to  be 
so  placed  that  she  could  be  a  hindrance  to  him. 

It  was  after  she  had  sent  this  note  that  she  had  a  bad 
half-hour  there  with  herself  alone.  During  that  half-hour 
she  was  honest  with  herself.  There  was,  she  knew,  a  hid 
den  ring  of  self-forgetting  sacrifice  in  what  the  note  said, 
which  was  not  true  in  fact.  She  realized  that  she  was 
imitating,  poorly,  the  real  abnegation  of  the  other  woman. 
She  knew  that  she  was  not  going  away  as  Lizette  had  gone 
away,  with  nothing  but  pure  love  of  Murdoch,  unselfish 
love,  unselfish  to  the  point  of  soul-suicide,  as  the  reason 
for  her  going.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  sublimely  put 
ting  him  away  from  her  to  save  his  happiness,  as  Lizette 
honestly  believed  that  she  was.  She  knew  that  deep  in 
her  heart  the  hope  had  not  left  her  when  she  wrote  that 
note,  that  somewhere,  somehow,  sometime,  John  Murdoch 


246  LIZETTE. 

would  love  her  and  marry  her,  even  if  the  doing  of  it 
robbed  him  of  a  greater  and  a  worthier  love  than  she  could 
ever  show  him.  She  felt  that  her  impulse  of  self-sacrifice 
was  tardy,  that  it  came  after  the  other  had  made  agonizing 
renunciation.  She  knew  she  was  withdrawing  from  the 
field  only  after  Fate  had  vanquished  and  driven  off  her 
opponent.  Yet  she  tried  to  get  a  sort  of  satisfying  self- 
commendation  out  of  it.  Murdoch  might  find  Lizette  in 
Lourdee,  but  Miss  Markleham  quickly  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  the  likelihood  of  it  was  not  great  after  what 
had  happened. 

Murdoch  saw  the  aunt  again  before  they  went  away. 
She  did  not  understand.  The  niece,  evidently,  had  told 
her  nothing,  and  she  was  much  annoyed  because  the  girl's 
desire  to  leave  was  so  persistent. 

They  stayed  another  day,  during  which  Miss  Markleham 
did  not  stir  from  her  hotel,  and  then  they  left.  Murdoch 
was  not  told  what  train  they  were  to  leave  on,  and  so  could 
not  see  them  off.  He  did  not  even  think  of  this.  His 
worry  over  this  new  development  which  had  come  in  his 
searching  for  Lizette  and  certain  cables  which  had  come 
to  him  from  New  York  occupied  his  thoughts. 

As  best  he  could  he  made  arrangements  to  prolong  his 
absence  from  the  bank,  and  continued  doggedly  his  search 
at  Lourdes,  although  he  felt  reasonably  certain  that 
Lizette  had  left  the  city  of  the  Holy  Shrine. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  preparing  to  leave  Lourdes  and 
was  actually  about  to  take  his  disappointed  way  to  the 
railway  station,  disheartened  and  discouraged,  that  the 
portier  of  the  hotel  handed  him  a  note.  He  smiled  good- 
naturedly  as  he  gave  it  to  him,  as  one  might  smile  who 
gives  a  stick  of  candy  to  a  child. 

"A  lady  gave  me  this  to  give  to  you  when  you  should 
go  away,"  said  the  impressive  servant.  "I  was  not  to  give 
it  to  you  until  just  before  you  went.  That  was  a  consid 
eration  most  impressed  upon  me.  She  said  it  was  to  come 
to  you  as  a  surprise.  I  promised,  and  you  see  that  I  have 
kept  my  word." 

The  note  was  from  Lizette.  It  said  good-by.  It  said 
that  she  had  come  to  Lourdes  to  pray  and  that  her  prayers 


MISS  MARKLEHAM  AGAIN.  247 

had  been  answered  by  the  Blessed  Virgin.  She  would  not 
bring  the  ruin  on  him.  He  was  ever  to  remember  that  she 
loved  him  well.  He  was  always  to  think  of  her  as  smiling, 
recalling,  as  she  should  herself,  the  happy  days  that  lay 
buried  in  the  past.  He  was  to  search  for  her  no  more. 
She  should  live  and  ever  love  him.  Before  the  note  could 
reach  him  she  should  be  far  away,  knowing  in  her  heart 
that  what  she  did  was  best  for  him.  She  had  so  longed  to 
once  more  nestle  in  his  arms!  She  had  so  longed  to  take 
the  happiness  held  out  to  her  in  that  letter,  sweet  and 
wondrous,  in  which  he  asked  of  her  to  be  his  wife!  But 
alas!  This  could  not  be.  She  had  asked  the  Blessed  Vir 
gin,  who  had  answered  by  a  sign  that  the  place  she  longed 
and  hungered  for  was  not  hers  to  take.  She  could  not 
take  to  him  the  ruin.  By  disappearing  from  his  life  she 
would  give  to  him  the  freedom  which  would  mean  success 
and  happiness  in  his  new  home  across  the  sea.  She 
pressed  him  to  her  heart.  She  said  adieu! 

Of  course,  his  eyes  were  tear-filled  when  he  had  read  this 
letter.  Of  course,  his  face  showed  that  it  had  distressed 
him  greatly.  The  portier  was  much  discomfited. 

"I  regret,  M'sieu,"  he  said,  "that  I  should  be  the  bearer 
of  ill  news." 

He  paused  a  moment,  thinking  if  he  should  tell  about 
another  errand  given  to  him  by  this  same  lady  who  had 
given  the  note  to  Murdoch.  He  decided  that  there  was 
already  enough  unhappiness  about  the  matter  to  put  his 
fee  in  danger,  and  did  not  tell  Murdoch  that  he  had  also 
handed  a  note  to  Mary  Markleham  as  she  was  leaving  on 
the  train. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY. 

The  letter  changed  their  plans.  It  shocked  both  Mur 
doch  and  Kentucky:  There  was  an  ominous  finality  about 
the  poor  little  one's  farewell.  At  first  it  had  seemed  im 
possible  that  she  could  evade  them  long,  but  now  they  had 
lost  confidence  in  their  ability  to  find  her.  They  had  been 
within  a  few  feet  of  her  and  had  missed  her,  although  they 
had  made  every  effort  that  they  could  to  guard  against 
such  chance.  They  saw  that  if  she  chose  to  keep  away 
from  them  it  might  be  easier  for  her  to  carry  out  her  de 
termination  of  self-sacrifice  than  they  had  thought  it  could 
be  by  any  possibility. 

There  came  to  Murdoch  an  inkling  of  the  thought  which 
to  Mary  Markleham  would  have  been  a  distressing  cer 
tainty,  even  if  she  had  not  received  that  note  which  the 
portier  had  given  to  her.  He  had  a  dim  idea  of  the  reason 
for  Lizette's  flight,  but  the  evidence  which  was  in  his  mind 
to  support  his  theory  was  so  indefinite  that  he  could  feel 
no  kind  of  certainty  about  its  value. 

Murdoch  telegraphed  the  facts  to  Houlier,  and  told  him 
to  keep  watch  of  Paris  without  regard  to  cost.  There  was 
a  new  worry  in  his  mind  about  Lizette's  finances.  She 
could  have  very  little  money  left,  even  if  she  had  been 
ever  so  saving  in  her  expenditures.  There  was  no  way  in 
which  he  could  give  her  money,  and  he  feared  that  she 
might  suffer  from  the  need  of  it.  In  that  matter,  as  in 
others,  he  was  quite  helpless,  but  it  added  to  the  fever  of 
his  anxiety  to  find  her. 

He  discussed  the  matter  with  Kentucky,  and  it  was  de 
cided  that  Kentucky  should  remain  in  the  south  and  keep 
close  watch  of  the  search  there,  while  Murdoch  went  up 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  249 

to  Paris  to  see  if  anything  could  be  done  there  which 
Houlier  was  not  already  doing.  There  was  another  reason 
why  it  was  better  for  Murdoch's  peace  of  mind  to  be  in 
Paris.  There  were  cablegrams  from  home  that  worried 
him,  and  he  could  manage  home  affairs  better  from  Paris, 
where  he  would  be  in  direct  touch  by  cable  with  the  bank 
in  New  York  City,  than  he  could  from  a  remote  country 
district  like  that  down  there  in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Pyre 
nees. 

So  Murdoch  took  the  northern  train.  In  a  few  days 
the  pilgrimage  was  over,  and  Lourdes  was  emptied  of  its 
crowds  of  devotees.  It  was  easy  then  to  arrange  with  the 
local  police  there  to  watch  the  grotto,  where  stray  visitors 
pray  the  whole  year  'round,  with  some  certainty  that  they 
would  be  able  to  do  it  thoroughly,  and  Kentucky  went  to 
Pau.  There  were  two  reasons  for  his  selection  of  that 
city.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  the  largest  in  that  part  of 
France.  In  the  second  place,  it  was  very  near  to  where, 
in  days  gone  by,  Kentucky  had  painted  the  picture  of  that 
churchyard,  where,  afterwards,  his  loved  ones  were  laid  to 
rest  in  that  dreadful  cholera  grave.  Kentucky  had  a  long 
ing  to  once  more  see  this  place.  It  was  probably  intensi 
fied  by  his  grief  about  the  disappearance  of  Lizette,  for 
new  sorrows  bring  back  memories  of  old  ones  oftentimes. 

He  only  paused  at  Pau  a  night,  and  put  the  police  there 
at  work.  Already  all  that  part  of  France  was  being 
searched  closely  for  the  little  one;  but,  when  he  could, 
Kentucky  always  supplemented  the  general  instructions 
sent  out  from  Paris  by  others  mouth-given.  Then,  by 
diligence,  he  went  a  few  miles  farther  to  that  tiny  village 
slumbering  in  the  ardent  southern  sunshine — ardent,  but 
crisp,  invigorating,  with  all  enervating  qualities  filtered 
from  it  by  the  high  peaks  of  the  Pyrenees. 

The  place  had  changed  but  little  since  he  had  painted 
there  that  one  picture  which  had  been  good  enough  to  sell, 
but  all  too  dear  to  part  with.  The  small  church  had  crum 
bled  but  a  trifle.  The  sentinel  poplars  kept  their  never- 
failing  watch  as  in  the  days  gone  by.  He  reached  there 
just  at  sunset,  and  it  came  and  went  that  night  as  other 
bright  displays  of  gorgeous  color  had  come  and  gone  there 


250  LIZETTE. 

in  the  sky  when  he  was  happy,  and  had  held  there  in  his 
arms  his  little  one,  while  his  wife  looked  on  at  them  and 
laughed,  and  the  old  woman  who  cooked  their  meals 
scolded  across  the  churchyard  hedge  because  they  waited 
there  to  watch  instead  of  going  in  to  eat  the  dinners  which 
were  hot  and  waiting. 

It  had  been  years  since  he  had  seen  the  place,  and  now, 
with  sorrow  softened  by  their  passage,  it  did  him  good  to 
be  there.  It  helped  him  in  this  new  worry  which  had 
come  to  him,  this  sorrow  about  Lizette  and  Murdoch. 
Even  the  common  grave,  in  which  were  buried  all  the  vic 
tims  of  the  cholera,  that  grave  whose  rough  sides  of  new- 
turned  earth  had  lingered  like  a  wound  in  his  sad  mem 
ory,  had  changed  in  the  flying  of  the  years  and  become  less 
horrible  in  its  looks,  if  not  in  its  significance.  The  un 
sightly  heap  of  yellow  clay  had  been  shaped  up  and  sodded, 
and  over  it  the  town  had  placed  a  simple  monument. 
There  were  no  names  cut  upon  the  stone.  It  is  doubtful 
if,  in  those  days  of  epidemic,  records  had  been  kept  of  who 
lay  buried  there,  but  on  the  stone  was  cut  a  brief  inscrip 
tion,  which  said  that  'neath  it  lay  a  hundred  victims  of  the 
scourge. 

Kentucky  thought  that  this  was  well.  He  reflected  that 
it  would  have  been  new  sorrow  to  him  to  have  found  her 
name  among  so  many  others  on  the  monument. 

The  grave  was  tended  with  mechanical  neatness,  as  all 
public  property  is  like  to  be  in  any  part  of  France,  but 
there  was  no  sign  about  it  that  anyone  survived  who  had 
especial  care  for  any  of  the  dead  who  lay  there.  On  the 
other  graves  throughout  the  churchyard  there  were  little 
withered  posies,  sometimes  a  wreath  of  stiff,  tin  flowers; 
occasionally  more  elaborate  decoration  even  on  the  graves 
of  those  whose  deaths  had  come  long  years  before,  but  on 
this  common  grave  there  were  no  signs  that  anyone  ex 
cept  the  vague,  impersonal  government  remembered. 
Kentucky  thought  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  get  some 
flowers  to  lay  upon  it.  He  was  too  weary  now  to  make 
the  effort. 

As  he  rose  from  the  seat  upon  which  he  had  sunk,  as  he 
thought  of  the  pleasant  days  gone  by,  he  felt  strangely 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  251 

weak,  and  when  he  got  back  to  the  small  hotel  the  weak 
ness  grew  until  he  had  scarcely  strength  to  get  upstairs 
alone  and  tumble  into  bed,  a  fever  burning  in  his  blood. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  lingered  in  the  night  air 
too  much  at  Lourdes.  Perhaps  it  was  the  reasonable  re 
action  from  the  strain  there.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  pen 
alty  which  might  properly  be  expected  for  his  years  of  .too 
much  absinthe.  But,  at  any  rate,  he  was  definitely  ill,  al 
though  the  village  surgeon  told  him  there  was  nothing 
serious  about  it,  that  a  few  days'  rest  and  dosing  would 
set  him  right  again.  He  telegraphed  to  Murdoch  that  he 
was  ill,  but  that  there  was  no  occasion  for  worry. 

For  two  days  he  lay  there  in  the  small  hotel,  not  suffer 
ing,  but  very  weak.  From  his  window  he  could  gaze  out 
at  the  street,  and  even  get  a  small  glimpse  of  the  church 
yard  and  its  grave  beyond. 

The  first  morning  he  got  up  he  received  a  letter  and  a 
telegram  from  Murdoch.  The  letter  told  him  that,  with 
Houlier's  help,  a  great  search  had  been  started  for  the  lit 
tle  one,  and  that  the  authorities,  especially  in  the  south  of 
France,  had  been  furnished  with  many  copies  of  Mur 
doch's  sketches  of  Lizette.  She  had  never  posed  before 
a  camera.  Photographs  were  much  less  common  then 
than  now.  But  the  sketches  were  most  careful  likenesses 
and  might  well  serve  in  identification.  Houlier  had  much 
hope,  and  Murdoch  told  Kentucky  not  to  feel  discouraged. 
He  said  that  he  must  make  an  effort  to  get  wholly  well 
again,  and  must  take  sufficient  rest  to  help  him.  The  time 
was  coming  fast,  he  said,  when  he,  Murdoch,  must  of  ne 
cessity  go  back  to  New  York,  for  a  time,  at  least.  Affairs 
there  were  calling  with  a  clamor  that  could  not  be  denied. 
The  telegram  set  the  date  for  his  departure.  It  said  that 
he  should  sail  two  weeks  from  then. 

This  news  came  to  Kentucky  in  the  small  dining-room 
of  the  hotel,  and  the  rage  it  threw  him  into  may  have 
helped  to  make  him  strong.  He  was  not  really  surprised 
that  Murdoch  should  find  it  necessary  to  go  back.  He 
had  expected  it.  But  it  seemed  to  do  him  good  to  swear 
and  rage  a  little,  and  so  he  swore  and  raged. 

Perhaps  because  he  let  his  pent-up  feelings  loose  in 


252  LIZETTE. 

anger  against  Murdoch  and  that  bank  which  claimed  Mur 
doch's  time,  he  felt  much  stronger  after  he  had  eaten,  and 
went  into  the  village  to  get  some  flowers  to  place  upon  that 
grave.  There  was  no  florist's  shop  in  so  small  a  town,  but 
in  a  dooryard  he  saw  some  roses  blossoming,  and  he  bought 
them,  to  the  good  wife's  surprise.  He  went  slowly  to  the 
churchyard. 

He  entered  by  the  path,  long  since  almost  disused,  which 
had  been  the  main  means  of  entrance  when  he  had  painted 
there  in  the  days  gone  by,  and  again  there  came  to  him  a 
rush  of  sweet,  sad  memories  of  the  past.  He  paused  at 
every  step  to  gaze  again  at  that  pleasant  prospect  which 
he  had  known  so  well  in  days  gone  by.  The  tears  came 
to  his  eyes,  not  bitter  tears,  but  tears  of  softened  grief,  and, 
with  head  down-bent  and  eyes  which  slurred  the  present 
in  looking  dreamily  into  the  past,  he  approached  the  grave 
again. 

He  saw  again,  as  he  approached,  the  wife  who  lay  there. 
He  looked  at  her  as  she  had  been  long,  long  ago,  and  won 
dered  if  the  tales  of  Heaven  were  true.  He  could  plainly 
understand  their  origin  in  human  need  for  comfort,  even 
if,  like  the  mirage  of  water  which  the  thirsty  desert  trav 
eler  sometimes  sees,  they  were  built  only  of  such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  of.  He  felt  the  need,  that  morning,  of 
such  belief  himself.  It  would  comfort  him,  he  thought, 
to  think  that  she  could  look  down  on  him  and  see  him 
there,  grief -struck  and  saddened  by  her  loss  even  after  the 
passage  of  so  many  years. 

He  wondered  if,  in  gazing  at  him,  she  would  pass  his 
many  errors  by  and  understand.  He  wondered  if  there 
had  been  comfort  for  her  when  she  saw  his  great  devotion 
to  the  picture  which  hung  there  in  his  studio  and  told  the 
little  tale  of  this  same  churchyard.  He  wondered  if  she 
would  count  his  faithfulness  to  her,  a  blessed  memory,  suf 
ficient  offset  to  his  sins  of  absinthe,  and  if,  as  she  looked 
down  on  him,  she  forgave  him  for  his  failures.  He  won 
dered  if  she  could  see  how  weak  his  step  was,  if  she  would 
note  the  trembling  of  the  hand  that  held  the  flowers,  if 
she  would  see  the  dullness  of  the  eye  which  ortce  had 
flashed  so  bright  with  the  light  of  love  for  her,  if  she  would 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  253 

see  the  gray  strands  in  the  hair  which  had  been  so  black 
and  stubborn  in  the  days  gone  by  when  she  had  rumpled 
it  with  loving  fingers. 

His  eyes  so  filled  with  tears  at  thinking  of  these  things 
that  he  could  scarcely  see  the  grave  he  kneeled  beside  as 
he  stretched  his  hand  out  to  lay  the  flowers  upon  it.  He 
placed  them  gently  on  the  turf  and  knelt  there  a  long 
time  beside  the  grave,  unseeing  and  thinking  only  of  the 
past  until  his  eyes  had  cleared  of  dimming  tears. 

And  then  he  saw  that  he  had  laid  his  flowers  beside  an 
other  little  nosegay! 

At  first  this  hurt  him  just  a  little.  It  brought  to  mind 
the  fact  that,  however,  he  might  kneel  and  weep  beside 
this  grave,  it  was  a  common  grave  where  other  sorrows 
than  his  own  lay  buried.  The  luxury  of  exclusiveness  was 
even  denied  to  him  in  this,  his  woe. 

Still  the  flowers  were  a  tribute  from  some  loving  heart 
whose  love  had  lived  as  long  ago  as  his  and  was  sacred  to 
it.  He  looked  at  them  with  sympathetic  curiosity.  They 
were  red  carnations,  bound  with  narrow,  purple  ribbon. 
A  little  card  was  tied  to  them,  with  the  writing  on  it  up 
permost.  He  read  with  startled  eyes: 

"Pour  I'amour  de  cher  Kentucky." 

"For  the  love  of  dear  Kentucky!" 

He  could  scarcely  trust  his  eyes.  It  was  Lizette's  hand 
writing  on  the  card.  It  was  Lizette's  sweet  thought  to 
come  here  and  place  the  posies  on  the  grave,  as  she  had 
placed  those  other  flowers  above  his  picture  in  his  little 
room. 

For  a  second  the  true  significance  of  their  presence  there 
did  not  strike  him.  He  picked  them  up  and  kissed  them, 
and,  as  he  held  them  to  his  lips,  it  rushed  upon  him  that 
they  meant  that  she  had  been  there  and  that  his  search  was 
ended.  These  were  a  trace  of  her  so  recent  that  they 
could  not  fail  to  find  her  now.  His  very  pilgrimage  to  the 
grave  of  those  he  loved  who  had  died  had  led  him  to  the 
finding  of  her  he  loved  who  lived!  He  must  find  out 
about  them. 

In  hurrying  from  the  churchyard  he  forgot  his  weak 
ness,  or  it  had  gone  from  him. 


254  LIZETTE. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  learn  about  her  visit.  Small 
towns  have  few  things  to  talk  about,  and  there  had  been 
that  about  the  visitor's  stay  which  had  started  many 
tongues  a-wagging. 

The  landlord  of  the  hotel  explained  that  the  lady  who 
had  visited  the  churchyard  had  been  there  during  the  after 
noon  of  yesterday.  Had  they  known  that  M'sieu  would 
have  been  interested  in  knowing  of  her  visit  they  would 
have  gone  to  his  room  and  told  him  of  it.  But  who  could 
dream  that  such  a  thing  was  true?  That  the  two  stran 
gers  who  should  chance  to  visit  their  small  town,  where  so 
few  strangers  ever  came,  should  know  each  other,  though 
neither  knew  about  the  other's  presence  there!  It  was 
amazing!  Her  visit  to  the  churchyard?  The  caretaker 
would  know  of  that.  It  seemed  that  she  did  not  know,  at 
first,  that  the  churchyard  was  familiar  to  her,  and  she  had 
thought  she  needed  help  to  find  the  cholera  grave.  They 
would  send  for  the  old  man.  He  would  tell  M'sieu  about 
it  exactly  as  it  happened.  This  was  done. 

He  was  old  and  garrulous.  When  he  finally  started  on 
his  story  of  the  small  one's  visit,  he  first  gave  details  of 
his  own  emotions.  When  they  had  sent  for  him  from  the 
hotel  he  had  been  much  surprised.  He  had  cared  for  the 
churchyard  many  years,  but  had  not  once  been  called  upon 
to  show  it  to  a  stranger.  It  was  BO  small  a  churchyard,  in 
so  small  a  town! 

He  had  told  the  lady  that,  he  said,  and  she  had  smiled. 
She  said  that  she  had  seen  the  churchyard  from  the  hotel 
window,  and  that,  of  course,  she  knew  the  way  to  it,  but 
that  there  was  one  especial  grave  she  did  not  know  and 
hoped  that  he  would  be  kind  enough  to  point  it  out  to  her. 
He  asked  what  grave  it  was  she  wanted  him  to  point  out, 
and  she  said  it  was  the  one  where  lay  the  victims  of  the 
cholera.  Also  she  said  that  she  was  glad  to  have  for  guide 
one  who  had  lived  there  in  the  village  many  years,  for 
perhaps  he  might  have  known  the  people  who  lay  buried 
there  and  could  talk  to  her  of  them.  He  told  her  that 
the  cholera  grave  could  not  be  missed  and  that  he  could 
readily  talk  to  her  of  those  who  lay  there.  His  memory 
was  better  for  the  faces  that  he  knew  long,  long  ago  than 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  255 

it  was  for  many  things  more  recent.  Such,  he  had  told 
her,  was  the  way  with  age.  He  also  assured  M'sieu  that 
such  was  the  way  with  age.  He  would  learn  it  for  him 
self  when  he  should  become  old. 

He  asked  her  who  it  was  among  the  victims  that  she 
was  interested  in,  and  she  told  him  that  the  wife  and  baby 
of  a  friend  of  hers  in  Paris  slumbered  there  in  their  last 
sleep. 

He  took  her  toward  the  grave  and  was  about  to  point 
it  out  to  her,  when  she  said  herself  that  there  it  was  and 
hastened  to  its  side. 

She  was  most  pleased  by  the  attention  that  had  been 
given  to  the  grave,  and  said  that  she  would  tell  her  friend 
of  that  when  next  she  saw  him.  It  was  right  there,  said 
the  caretaker,  that  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  lady, 
who  had  been  most  interested  and  eager  during  all  their 
previous  talk,  now  broke  into  furious  weeping.  He  asked 
her  what  it  was  that  troubled  her.  He  felt  that  it  could 
not  be  the  seeing  of  the  grave,  for  that  had  come  upon 
her  without  affecting  her,  and,  besides,  she  had  said  that 
she  had  never  known  the  two  relatives  of  her  friend  who 
were  there  buried,  so  her  interest  in  them  could  have  only 
been  for  the  sake  of  the  friend  and  not  because  of  per 
sonal  grief.  But  when  she  said  that  she  should  tell  her 
friend  about  it  when  she  saw  him,  she  broke  down  and 
cried  most  bitterly.  In  answer  to  his  questions,  at  first 
she  only  moaned  inarticulately,  but  when  she  said  she 
grieved  because  her  saying  what  she  had  about  her  friend 
had  recalled  to  her  mind  the  bitter  fact  that  maybe  she 
would  never  see  him  more.  It  had  all  been  very  strange, 
the  caretaker  asserted,  and  he  had  not  understood  the 
manner  of  the  small  lady. 

She  had  asked  him  if  he  had  lived  there  when  he  was 
a  boy,  or,  rather,  when  he  was  a  younger  man,  and  he  had 
told  her  that  he  had  lived  there  all  hig  life  except  for  a 
few  years.  He  had  told  her  that  he  had  left  there  just 
before  the  cholera  broke  out,  which  had  been  a  lucky  thing 
for  him,  and  so  had  missed  the  scourge,  but  had  returned 
not  long  afterward  and  had  been  there  ever  since.  She 
asked  him  if  he  remembered  an  artist  who  once  had 


256  LIZETTE. 

painted  in  the  churchyard,  and  he  had  laughed  at  her  and 
L;aid  he  did  remember  him  right  well,  because  the  artist 
and  his  wife  and  little  child  had  lodged  above  his  father's 
shop  and  had  made  his  mother's  temper  bad  by  their  ir 
regularity  at  meals. 

The  old  man  laughed  at  this  old  memory.  Kentucky 
remembered  those  days  well,  and  what  had  been  the 
woman's  special  aggravation.  Each  night  he  stayed  there 
in  the  churchyard  until  after  the  sunset's  tints  had  faded, 
for  he  tried  to  catch  them  there  on  his  canvas.  This  had 
made  his  dinners  late,  much  to  the  old  woman's  annoyance. 
He  smiled  even  now,  as  he  remembered  how  she  had 
scolded  across  the  hedge  at  him.  Her  tongue  had  been  so 
sharp  that  she  had  sometimes  frightened  the  young  wife, 
who  then  was  with  him,  and  once  or  twice  she  had  even 
made  the  dear  small  one  cry  with  terror.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  resented  that,  and  how  sharply  he  had  told 
her  that  such  goings  on  must  stop  if  she  wished  to  keep 
her  lodgers. 

The  caretaker  went  on  to  tell  about  Lizette. 

"She  said  she  wished  to  enter  the  old  church,  and  I 
went  home  to  get  the  keys,  leaving  her  still  standing  by 
the  grave.  She  did  not  stay  there,  though,  for  before  I 
reached  the  hedge  she  was  there  with  me  again.  She 
went  with  me  to  my  very  door,  and  waited  down  below 
while  I  went  up. 

"When  I  came  down  with  the  keys  she  walked  with  me 
to  the  church,  ever  looking  all  around,  as  if  she  might  be 
trying  to  remember  some  familiar  thing  which  would  not 
come  readily  to  her  mind.  The  whole  small  village  seemed 
to  be  of  interest  to  her,  and  she  talked  of  it  and  asked 
me  many  questions.  She  said  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
had  seen  something  very  like  it  all  before,  almost  as  if 
the  town  had  come  to  her,  sometime,  in  a  dream.  She 
said  her  friend,  an  artist,  had  painted  a  picture  of  the 
churchyard  which  she  had  seen,  and  that,  of  course,  ac 
counted  for  her  memory  of  that.  She  said  it  must  have 
changed  but  little  since  the  days  when  he  had  painted  it." 

"Very  little,"  said  Kentucky. 

The  old  man  looked  keenly  at  him  before  he  went  on. 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  257 

"So  she  said/'  he  finally  continued.  "But  she  said  that 
there  seemed  to  be  there  in  her  memory  a  picture  of  things 
about  the  town  which  were  not  painted  in  the  picture 
which  her  friend  had  made.  The  very  butcher  shop,  she 
said,  seemed  like  one  that  she  had  seen  in  dreams,  grown 
older.  She  could  not  understand  at  all,  she  said,  the 
strange  feeling  that  all  about  the  village  was  familiar  to 
her — was  familiar,  although  she  never  had  set  her  eyes  on 
it  before. 

"We  went  from  my  shop  to  the  church  and  entered,  and 
she  looked  about  at  the  interior.  It  has  been  newly  deco 
rated,  M'sieu,  and  is  very  fine  now,  I  assure  you.  Before 
you  go  away  you  must  certainly  look  in  on  it.  She,  how 
ever,  did  not  seem  to  be  impressed  by  it,  although  I  told 
her  what  large  sums  the  beautification  of  it  had  cost  the 
parish. 

"From  the  church  we  went  back  to  the  grave  there  in 
the  churchyard,  and  it  was  then  she  placed  the  flowers  on 
it.  She  had  had  them  in  her  hand  before.  When  she 
had  put  them  there  she  kneeled  and  said  a  prayer. 

"We  left  the  churchyard  just  as  the  sun  was  setting, 
and  she  stopped  and  gazed  at  it  until  all  the  glory  faded 
from  the  sky.  While  she  looked  at  it  a  strange  change 
came  into  her  face,  which  almost  frightened  me.  We 
were  standing  at  the  end  of  the  old  path,  just  beyond  the 
hedge.  It  was  where  my  mother  used  to  stand  and  scold 
M'sieu  because  he  kept  the  dinner  waiting  with  his  gazing 
at  the  sunsets. 

"  'It  is  strange,'  she  said.  'It  is  very  strange.  It  is  the 
churchyard  of  the  picture — that  I  know.  This  is  the 
churchyard  that  he  told  me  of,  and  yet  it  is  the  church 
yard  of  the  memories,  too!  It  is  the  churchyard  of  the 
picture.  It  is  the  churchyard  of  the  memories!' 

"I  asked  her  what  memories  she  meant,  but  she  did  not 
answer  me.  We  started  to  go  across  the  road  there  to  my 
shop,  where  I  intended  to  put  by  my  keys  before  I  went 
back  to  the  hotel.  She  stopped  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

"  'You  go  on/  she  said  to  me.  'After  you  have  left  the 
keys,  come  back.  I  wish  to  make  arrangements  about 


258  LIZETTE. 

having  other  flowers  placed  on  the  grave.  I  shall  be  wait' 
ing  at  the  entrance  of  the  path/ 

"I  did  just  as  she  told  me,  M'sieu,  and  when  I  came 
back,  having  left  the  keys,  she  was  still  standing  in  tha 
entrance  of  the  old  path,  which  used  to  be  the  main  way 
into  the  cemetery.  She  asked  me  again  if  I  could  remenv 
ber  the  artist  who  had  painted  pictures  there,  and  I  told 
her  all  that  I  could  remember  of  him. 

"  'It  is  because  his  wife  and  baby  are  buried  in  the  chol 
era  grave  that  I  wish  to  have  the  flowers  put  upon  it/  she 
said. 

"I  tried  to  correct  her  mistake.  I  said,  'His  wife  is 
buried  in  the  cholera  grave.  That  I  know.  But  his  baby 
is  not  buried  there.  The  baby  did  not  die  when  the 
mother  died.  The  baby  was  taken  away  from  here.  It 
did  not  die/" 

"You  were  wrong,"  interrupted  Kentucky,  sadly. 

"I  was  not  wrong,"  the  old  man  protested.  "I  ought 
to  know,  for  I  came  back  here  and  heard  about  it,  not  long 
after  the  little  one  had  been  taken  away.  The  baby  did 
not  die,  M'sieu.  The  baby  was  taken  by  its  mother's 
relatives." 

For  a  moment  Kentucky  looked  at  the  old  man  with  a 
strange  eagerness  of  expression  on  his  face.  It  was  as  if 
a  great  hope  was  being  born  within  him.  But  he  killed 
it  at  its  birth. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  had  thought 
you  would  remember  me.  I  have  waited  all  the  afternoon 
for  you  to  recognize  me.  I  am  the  artist  who  painted  in 
the  churchyard — and  the  baby  died.  When  I  came  back 
from  America  they  both  were  dead — the  mother  and  the 
little  one.  *They  both  were  dead — and  buried  in  the  chol 
era  grave.  It  is  because  of  that  that  I  am  here." 

The  old  caretaker  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears. 

"Oh,  la,  la,  la!"  he  cried.  "Of  a  certainty  it  is  you.  I 
remember.  I  recognize  you  now.  All  the  afternoon  my 
mind  has  struggled  to  make  out  who  you  were.  All  the 
afternoon!  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  something 
about  you  somewhere,  I  could  not  tell  what,  which  was 
familiar.  Now  I  have  it.  And  so  you  are  the  artist  with 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  259 

whom  my  mother  used  to  quarrel.  Bien,  bien,  lien!  And 
it  was  because  of  you  that  the  little  lady  left  the  flowers 
there  and  will  arrange  to  have  more  sent  from  Pau.  Ah, 
it  is  a  pity  that  she  did  not  know  that  you  were  ill  at  the 
hotel!  How  strange  is  life!" 

He  reached  his  hand  out  to  Kentucky,  and  the  old  artist 
shook  it  heartily. 

"I  wondered  if  you  would  recall  me/'  he  said,  smiling. 
"I  should  soon  have  told  you  who  I  was." 

"Ah!"  said  the  caretaker,  "you  wished  to  have  a  joke 
on  me.  And  all  the  time  you  knew  who  I  was,  and  all  the 
time  I  had  no  thought  that  you  were  he  at  whom  my 
mother  used  to  scold  because  the  dinners  waited.  Bien! 
Bien!" 

"And  so,"  said  Kentucky,  "you  see  that  the  little  one 
was  right.  She  knew  the  baby  died  because  I  told  her 
of  it." 

The  caretaker  looked  at  him  attentively  for  a  moment. 
He  was  very  solemn  as  he  spoke. 

"M'sieu,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  my  mem 
ory  is  bad.  But  there  are  some  things  which  are  much 
impressed  on  me,  and  this  is  one.  Perhaps  it  seems  ab 
surd  for  me  to  say  that  your  own  child  did  not  die  to  you 
who  says  she  did,  but  I  am  sure.  When  I  came  home 
from  sailoring  the  cholera  had  passed,  and  you  had  come 
and  found  your  wife  was  dead  and  gone  again.  But  when 
I  came  my  mother  told  me  that  the  baby  had  not  died. 
She  told  me  more,  but  I  cannot  clearly  recall  all  she  said. 
It  has  been  many  years.  But  she  told  me  that  the  baby 
did  not  die.  She  said  that  relatives  of  the  mother  came 
from  Paris  and  took  away  the  baby.  I  cannot  be  mis 
taken.  She  told  me  that  the  father  of  your  wife  and  his 
sister  or  her  sister — it  must  have  been  her  sister,  for  I  re 
call  my  mother  spoke  of  her  as  a  young  woman — came  and 
took  the  child  away  and  paid  the  money  that  was  owing." 

Kentucky  gazed  at  him  with  great  intentness  and  gulped 
once  or  twice.  The  man's  words  impressed  him  greatly, 
but  he  fought  to  keep  his  mind  from  accepting  the  hope 
that  was  born  within  it.  The  whole  thing  was  too  im 
possible,  too  incredible  to  think  of. 


260  L1ZETTE. 

"When  I  returned  from  America,"  he  said,  slowly,  to 
the  man,  "I  came  here  quickly.  I  had  not  known  about 
the  cholera  here  until  after  I  had  been  a  day  upon  the 
road  from  Marseilles,  where  I  landed  from  the  ship.  It 
was  then  that  I  learned  about  it  and  hurried  here  by  night 
and  day  over  roads  that  were  very  bad.  I  was  poor,  and 
that  journey  by  special  voilures  cost  me  much.  But  still 
I  made  it  when  1  heard  that  the  cholera  had  swept  this 
little  town.  I  came  here  and  I  found  that  both  my  wife 
and  baby  had  been  laid  to  rest  there  in  that  common  grave 
with  all  the  other  victims  of  the  cholera." 

The  caretaker  shook  his  head. 

"Many  years  have  passed,"  said  he.  "It  is  true  that 
you  ought  to  remember  more  about  such  things  than  I. 
It  seems  to  me  that  some  affair  most  strange  is  hidden  in 
this  matter.  I  will  tell  you  how  the  tale  was  told  to  me 
on  my  return,  which  was  not  many  weeks  after  you  had 
come  and  gone. 

"It  was  the  first  that  I  had  heard  about  the  plague  here. 
Our  own  household  was  grief-stricken.  Still  there  was 
room  left  in  the  mouths  of  folk  for  gossip.  Tears  in  the 
eyes  and  sorrow  in  the  hearts  will  not  drive  gossip  from 
the  mouth.  Oh,  I  remember  it  so  well.  I  wish  that  J 
could  tell  what  was  last  week  as  well  as  I  can  tell  what  was 
twenty  years  ago!  But  that  is  the  way  with  age — to  have 
better  memory  for  times  remote  than  for  times  just  passed. 

"Well,  when  I  returned  there  was  much  gossip  in  the 
village  about  your  wife  and  you  and  the  child.  The  story 
was  that  you  and  she  had  married  against  the  wishes  of  her 
family.  It  was  even  said  that  you  had  been  forced  to  go 
to  England  to  get  married,  and  that  you  could  never  have 
been  wed  in  France,  because  her  family  had  found  for  her 
another  man." 

"All  that  was  true,"  said  Kentucky,  slowly,  with  a 
strange  look  growing  on  his  face. 

"Well,  when  you  had  been  gone  a  time  and  did  not  come 
back  as  you  had  promised — pardon,  M'sieu,  I  am  merely 
telling  you  the  things  that  were  said  here;  I  know  nothing 
of  them  myself " 

"Go  on,"  said  Kentucky,  calmly.    "I  know  that  unkind 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  261 

things  might  well  be  said.  I  was  delayed  in  America 
much  longer  than  I  had  thought  to  be." 

"So  I  was  told,"  said  the  old  caretaker;  "so  you  see 
that  my  memory  cannot  be  so  very  bad,  if  I  remember 
that  so  accurately. 

"Well,  I  was  told  that  you  did  not  come  and  did  not 
come,  and  that  the  people  who  had  given  lodging  to  your 
wife  were  worried  for  their  money.  You  remember,  do 
you  not,  that  you  did  not  pay  our  family  for  the  bill  that 
you  had  left  behind  when  you  went  off  to  the  United 
States,  and  that  you  did  not  send  money  to  your  wife. 
Pardon,  M'sieu!  Such,  I  assure  you,  was  the  gossip.  It 
was  doubtless  false,  but  such  things  were  said.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"Go  on,"  said  Kentucky,  reddening.  "It  was  true.  I 
did  not  pay  because  I  could  not  pay.  When  I  came  back  I 
paid.  It  was  to  get  money  that  I  went  away." 

"I  remember  that  also,"  said  the  caretaker.  "I  remem 
ber  that  they  told  me  that  you  paid  when  you  came  back, 
and  that  was  what  made  them  doubly  frightened  about  the 
thing  which  had  happened  in  your  absence." 

"What  was  the  thing  that  had  happened  in  my  ab 
sence?"  asked  Kentucky,  anxiously. 

"Well,  first  of  all,  your  wife's  death,"  said  the  caretaker. 
"And,  second,  that  which  happened  to  the  baby.  It  was 
because  of  that,  I  think,  that  they  must  have  lied  to  you." 

Kentucky,  pale  and  trembling,  stood  and  listened  to 
him  with  half-opened  lips. 

"What  happened  to  my  baby?"  he  demanded. 

"She  did  not  die,"  the  caretaker  said,  slowly,  with  his 
old  lips  twitching  nervously  and  his  old  tongue  moistening 
them  now  and  then,  as  if  he  were  distressed.  "I'  know — 
I  well  remember — now — that  they  told  you  that  she  did. 
They  said  to  me  that  when  you  came  and  found  your  wife 
was  dead  you  acted  like  a  madman." 

"And  well  I  might,"  said  poor  Kentucky. 

"I  remember  her,"  the  caretaker  said,  slowly.  "And 
she  was  very  beautiful." 

Kentucky  looked  at  him  with  grateful  eyes.  His  heart 
thanked  the  old  man  for  what  he  said.  His  talk  had 


LIZETTE. 

shocked  Ketucky  much,  at  first,  and  with  so  great  a  bound 
had  the  emotions  in  his  heart  surged  high  with  hope  that 
the  blood,  which  had  so  deeply  flushed  his  face  as  he  had 
listened,  left  it  even  whiter  than  it  had  been  when  it  went 
out  again. 

The  old  man  spoke  now  with  some  determination,  as  if 
there  had  come  in  his  mind  a  strong  resolve. 

"As  I  think  about  the  matter,"  he  said,  slowly,  "it  seems 
to  me  that  you  have  suffered  great  and  grievous  wrong.  I 
thought  so  at  the  time.  I  think  so  now." 

There  was  such  conviction  and  real  sincerity  in  his  voice 
that  again  that  surge  of  color  came  into  Kentucky's  face; 
again  he  looked  at  the  old  caretaker  with  eagerness. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  suffered  grievous  wrong," 
the  man  repeated,  slowly.  "The  baby  did  not  die.  She 
did  not  even  have  the  cholera.  Such  things  are  strange, 
but  cholera  is  strange.  You  cannot  blame  my  family  too 
much.  You  must  remember  that  they  were  very  po_or. 
You  must  remember  that  you  owed  them  much.  You 
must  remember  that  you  had  been  long  away.  You  must 
remember  that  artists  are  often  strange,  and  that  it  was 
not  queer  that  they  should  think  that  when  you  did  not 
come  and  did  not  come,  the  gossip  spread  that  you  had 
left  your  p'tite  French  wife  and  gone  away  to  the  United 
States  to  come  no  more.  Well,  this  is  how  it  happened. 
She  died.  Before  she  died  she  sent  to  Paris  to  tell  her 
family,  from  whom  she  was  estranged,  if  I  remember,  be 
cause  she  married  you " 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  said  poor  Kentucky,  trembling. 
"Go  on." 

"The  baby  did  not  die,"  the  old  man  said  again,  with 
absolute  conviction. 

Kentucky,  overcome  by  this  reiteration,  felt  strangely 
weak.  His  head  swam  round.  He  trembled.  The  care 
taker  was  frightened. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said.  He  led  him  to  a  seat  there 
in  the  cemetery,  where  they  both  could  plainly  see  the 
cholera  grave. 

Kentucky  spoke  with  thickened  tongue  and  crackling 
lips. 


KENTUCKY'S  GREAT  DISCOVERY.  263 

"For  God's  sake,  tell  me  quickly/'  he  said,  with  trem 
bling  jaws  that  almost  made  him  stutter. 

"This  was  the  way  it  was,"  the  old  man  said,  with  some 
excitement.  "This,  indeed,  was  just  the  way  it  was.  You 
did  not  come.  You  owed  much  money.  The  people 
here  had  made  their  minds  up  to  the  idea  that  you  had 
run  away  from  both  your  debts  and  your  wife.  She  died. 
Before  she  died  she  was  much  worried  by  the  fact  that 
you  did  not  come  to  her  or  write  to  her.  Or,  if  you  wrote, 
there  was  something  in  your  letters  that  made  her  most 
unhappy." 

"I  told  her  of  my  troubles  in  America,"  said  poor  Ken 
tucky. 

"Well,  what  it  was  that  made  her  worry  I  do  not  know. 
Nobody  knew.  They  thought  it  was  as  I  have  said,  and 
that  she  feared  as  did  the  folk  you  owed  that  you  had 
gone  to  stay  and  would  not  come  to  pay  your  debts  or  get 
your  wife.  When  the  cholera  came  and  she  was  ill  of  it 
she  was  worse  worried  than  before,  and  it  may  be  that  the 
worry  of  your  silence  made  her  worse." 

"Good  God,  man!"  said  Kentucky,  cowering.  An 
American  or  Englishman  could  not  so  calmly  have  gone 
on,  as  did  the  old  caretaker.  The  French  are  cruel.  As 
a  race,  the  suffering  of  others  interests  them,  but  does  not 
make  them  sympathetic.  There  was  in  the  old  French 
man  now  that  same  calm  curiosity  which  a  surgeon  shows 
in  watching  the  effect  of  pain  upon  a  patient  on  the  oper 
ating  table. 

"Before  she  died  she  sent  to  Paris,"  said  the  caretaker, 
deliberately.  "I  think  the  priest  here  told  her  that  it 
would  be  to  her  soul's  advantage  if  she  sent  to  Paris. 
At  any  rate,  she  sent  to  Paris  and  two  members  of  her 
family  came  down." 

"Which  ones?"  Kentucky  asked,  his  paleness  giving  way 
again  to  vivid  coloring. 

"That  I  cannot  tell.  They  had  come  and  gone  before  I 
came  back  here.  I  think  it  was  her  sister  and  her  father. 
At  any  rate,  no  matter  who  they  were,  our  people  were 
most  glad  that  they  should  come,  for  they  paid  the  bills 
and  took  the  child  with  them." 


264  LIZETTE. 

"Kemember,"  said  Kentucky,  slowly.  "Kemember  that 
if  you  are  lying  or  mistaken  your  sin  is  horrible!" 

The  old  man  colored  now  with  anger.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Eh  bien,  M'sieu!"  he  said.  "If  you  do  not  wish  to 
have  me  speak,  why  question  me?  I  shall  say  no  more. 
What  reason  would  I  have  for  lying?  Not  much,  I  tell 
you,  for  I  will  also  tell  you  that  when  I  learned  what  had 
been  done,  I  told  my  people  that  they  had  done  a  sin,  and 
that  in  time  their  suffering  would  pay  for  it." 

Here  he  paused  again.  "It  is  strange  about  this  mat 
ter  of  the  sinning  and  the  punishments,"  he  said.  "They 
were  not  punished  for  it  on  this  earth,  at  least.  It  seems 
to  me  sometimes  that  those  who  sin  the  most  the  least 
are  punished." 

"I  know,"  Kentucky  interrupted,  "but  finish,  please. 
We'll  talk  religion  afterwards." 

"I  ought  not  to  be  offended,"  said  the  old  man.  "You 
have  been  ill,  and  what  I  have  said  to  you  has  affected 
you.  That  I  can  plainly  see.  But,  M'sieu,  the  baby  did 
not  die.  Of  that  you  may  be  sure.  And  that  it  is  most 
easy  for  me  to  prove  to  you  here  in  this  town.  I  can  take 
you  to  others  who  will  tell  you  that  the  baby  did  not  die." 

Kentucky  was  trembling  violently. 

"Come,  then,"  he  said.  "What  you  have  said  to  me 
seems  most  incredible,  but  I  must  know.  Come.  Take 
me  to  whoever  in  your  mind  can  straighten  this  thing 
out." 

The  old  man  led  the  way  to  a  small  shop,  whose  keeper 
was  older  than  himself.  There,  and  from  others  in  the 
village,  Kentucky  learned  that  what  the  man  had  said  had 
been  quite  true. 

His  ~baby  had  not  died! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  WOMAN  WHO  SOLD  COALS. 

Poor  Kentucky's  emotions  cannot  be  described.  They 
vacillated  between  joy  and  fury.  That  his  child  had  not 
been  numbered  with  the  victims  of  the  cholera,  that  she 
might  still  be  living,  was  such  happiness  to  him  that  he 
could  scarcely  realize  it.  That  he  had  been  lied  to  and 
cheated  of  a  father's  rights  in  her  was  maddening.  But 
there  remained  the  possibility  that  he  might  find  her  yet, 
and  this  filled  him  with  a  strange  exhilaration.  He  hur 
ried  to  the  postoffice  and  sent  a  message  to  John  Murdoch, 
telling  him  about  the  matter,  and  then  started  to 
thoroughly  investigate  the  case.  With  some  difficulty  he 
learned  details,  and  got  the  only  address  those  there  in  the 
town  could  give  him.  It  was  of  the  aunt  of  his  dead  wife, 
and  he  asked  Murdoch  in  another  telegram  to  have 
Houlier  see  her,  if  she  could  be  found.  He  did  not  go  to 
Paris  for  a  full  week,  for  even  in  the  excitement  of  this 
new  discovery  he  could  not  cease  his  searching  for  Lizette. 
It  was  hard  to  trace  the  little  one  in  Pau,  but  finally  he 
learned  with  reasonable  certainty  that  she  had  gone 
the  northward  way,  although  he  could  not  satisfy  himself 
that  her  tickets  had  been  taken  all  the  way  to  Paris.  When, 
a  week  later,  he  gave  up  his  fruitless  search^  after  having 
made  such  arrangements  as  were  necessary  to  have  it  car 
ried  on  by  the  authorities,  he  went  finally  to  Paris.  Mur 
doch  met  him  at  the  train.  There  was,  indeed,  community 
of  Borrow  now  between  them.  They  both  had  suffered 
grievous  losses. 

So  far  as  lay  within  his  power,  Murdoch  helped  Ken 
tucky  in  his  own  sad  search,  even  as  the  aged  student  had 
helped  him  in  his  searching  for  Lizette.  The  only  clue 


266  LIZETTE. 

that  poor  Kentucky  had  were  the  old  addresses  of  his  loved 
one's  family.  These  they  vainly  investigated.  So  far  as 
they  could  learn  they  all  were  dead  or  gone  away,  where, 
no  one  seemed  to  know.  It  was  when  the  old  woman  who 
sold  coals  came  up  with  the  week's  supply,  and  just  be 
fore  the  date  when  they  had  planned  to  leave  for  America, 
that  matters  began  to  clear  again,  and  in  their  clearing  be 
came  still  more  confused  and  painful.  She  lingered  long 
to  talk  that  afternoon,  and  wept.  She  seemed  to  share 
acutely  in  their  own  distress,  and  finally  told  them  that 
there  was  a  story  which  she  ought  to  tell  to  them  before 
they  went  away,  a  story  whic'h  they  certainly  should  know, 
but  a  story  which  was  not  entirely  to  her  own  credit.  Still, 
she  had  resolved  to  tell  it.  Her  distress  was  very  keen. 
They  could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  that.  She  sobbed  and 
begged  them  to  forgive  her,  before  she  told  them  why  she 
sobbed  or  what  there  was  to  be  forgiven. 

"It  is  strange,"  she  said  brokenly.  "It  is  all  most  strange. 
I  cannot  tell  how  God  brings  these  things  about.  The' 
ways  of  God  are  strange.  I  shall  tell  you  something  which 
will  not  help  you  now,  and  never  will,  indeed,  but  some 
thing  which  you  ought  to  know  because  you  love  P'tite 
Madame  so  well. 

"P'tite  Madame,"  she  went  on,  tearfully,  "was  very  good 
to  me.  She  did  not  know  my  real  identity,  or  else  she 
would  not  have  been  so  good.  I  knew  her.  I  know  now 
who  the  dear  child  is.  Ah!  If  only  I  knew  where  now 
to  find  her!  I  should  beg  forgiveness  of  her.  I  should 
beg  forgiveness  of  her  on  my  knees." 

The  men  could  not  understand  at  all  what  worried  the 
old  woman,  and  watched  her,  wonderingly.  But  her  sor 
row  was  so  real  that  Murdoch  said  kindly  to  her: 

"I'm  sure  that  you  are  greatly  over-estimating  some 
small  thing." 

"If  that  were  true,"  she  said,  still  weeping,  "I  should  bo 
happier.  But  it  is  not  true.  I  tried,  at  first,  to  be  as 
kind  to  her  as  possible,  because  I  knew  that  she  had 
suffered  wrong." 

"You  certainly  were  kind  to  her,"  said  Murdoch.  "What 
wrong  was  it  that  she  suffered?  I  am  sure  that  you  had 


STORY  OF  THE  OLD  WOMAN  WHO  SOLD  COALS.    267 

nothing  to  do  with  her  flight  from  Paris.  That  your  son 
had — that  I  also  know,  but  what  is  passed  is  passed.  I 
promised  you  that  I  should  never  harm  him  any  more  and 
I  shall  keep  my  promise.  It  would  not  bring  my  small 
one  back  to  me  to  duck  him  in  the  Seine  again/' 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals,  "if  my  own 
sins  could  be  washed  from  me  by  ducking  me  in  Seine 
water,  I  should  beg  of  you  to  duck  me  there  a  thousand 
times,  and  not  one  word  of  complaint  should  come  from 
my  old  lips.  But  ducking  me  in  Seine  water  would  not 
help  my  sin  to  her.  I  told  you  that  I  knew  who  she  was. 
I  do.  She  does  not.  It  was  because  I  thought  that  I  had 
wronged  her  that  I  helped  P'tite  Madame  once  or  twice, 
and  it  was  because  I  helped  her  that  afterwards  she  bought 
the  coals  of  me  and  sometimes  stopped  to  brightly  chatter 
in  my  poor  old  shop.  I  helped  her  in  the  first  place  be 
cause  I  knew  the  wrongs  she  suffered  under,  although  she 
did  not,  and  wished  to  wipe  away  my  part  of  them  for  my 
own  souPs  good.  So  when  I  could  be  kind  to  her,  I  was 
kind.  I  tried  even  to  do  more,  but  that  was  quite  beyond 
my  power.  I  tried  to  find  her  father  for  her,  years  after 
the  whole  thing  had  happened,  but  it  was  too  late.  He 
vanished  from  the  south  of  France  where  I  had  last  heard 
of  him,  and  never  could  1  find  where  he  had  gone.  P'tite 
Madame — she  was  my  niece!" 

The  two  men  looked  at  her  in  sheer  amazement. 

"This  was  the  way  it  was.  My  sister  married  much 
against  our  parents'  will.  She  married  an  American — an 
artist.  I  never  saw  him  once.  My  parents  never  spoke 
of  him  except  to  curse  him,  and  after  my  poor  sister  ran 
away  with  him  her  name  was  rarely  mentioned  in  our 
home,  or,  if  it  were,  was  mentioned  coupled  with  unpleas 
ant  words.  I  am  not  so  old,  Messieurs,  as  I  am  sure  I 
look  to  be.  Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  so  very  old.  I  was  the 
youngest  of  the  family,  and  when  my  sister  ran  away  it  was 
that  I  was  in  the  convent.  She  surely  loved  her  artist 
husband.  One  time  when  she  was  lying  ill  she  wrote  to 
me  a  letter  full  of  love  for  me  and  full  of  love  for  him.  She 
said  that  all  that  had  been  said  of  him  was  false,  and  that 
there  was  in  all  the  world  no  man  so  good,  so  kind,  so  tal- 


268  LI2ETTE. 

ented  as  he.  She  wrote  of  him  in  such  loving  words  and 
with  such  praise  that  after  that  I  could  not  quite  believe 
the  hard  things  that  my  parents  said  of  him  and  her.  I 
was  young,  too,  and  romantic,  as  young  women  are.  It 
may  seem  strange  that  an  old  woman  who  sells  coals  should 
have  an  education;  but  I  had  an  education  and  read  many 
books.  I  was  very  sorry  for  the  way  our  parents  thought 
of  her  and  him,  Messieurs.  It  was  not  a  few  times  when 
I  wished  that  I,  too,  might  find  an  artist  husband  to  bear 
me  to  the  south  of  France/' 

Kentucky  was  looking  at  her  with  strained  eyes.  He 
seemed  to  find  in  her  recital  a  promise  of  strange  things  to 
come. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Paillard,"  she  said.  "That  is  my  name.  I  have  not 
told  that  to  a  soul  for  many  years.  But  Paillard  is  my 
name." 

Kentucky's  face  was  white  as  chalk.  He  tried  to  speak. 
He  could  only  move  his  lips,  which,  dry  almost  to  cracking, 
loosed  no  sound.  His  hands  twitched  nervously,  their 
fingers  opening  and  shutting  with  no  object  in  their  action. 
She  looked  at  him  with  worry  in  her  face.  Murdoch  had 
been  watching  her,  but  when  she  paused  and  began  to 
stare  so  fearsomely  at  poor  Kentucky,  he  looked  toward 
him,  too,  and  what  he  saw  upon  Kentucky's  face  alarmed 
him.  He  sprang  up  quickly  and  went  to  the  student's  side. 
He  placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  shook  him. 
He  spoke  to  him  with  terror  in  his  voice. 

"Kentucky!"  he  cried.  "Kentucky!  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you?  What's  the  matter — tell  me  what's  the 
matter!" 

But  Kentucky  did  not  speak.  It  was  evident  from  the 
working  of  the  muscles  of  his  face  that  he  was  trying  to  do 
so,  but  no  sound  except  some  strange  dry  dickings  came 
from  him.  He  merely  strained  forward  with  that  face  on 
which  his  agony  was  written  and  looked  into  the  face 
of  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals.  She  gazed  at  him  trans.- 
fixed  between  fear  and  wonder.  Murdoch  and  she  both 
thought  the  student  had  been  taken  by  a  fit.  Murdoch 
bade  the  woman  go  for  water,  and  placed  his  arm  around 


STOKY  OF  THE  OLD  WOMAN  WHO  SOLD  COALS.    269 

Kentucky's  shoulders.  The  old  woman  got  the  water 
and  Kentucky  let  Murdoch  bathe  his  face  with  it.  When 
finally  he  could  speak  he  only  said  to  her: 

"Go  on.  Go  on.  Go  on.  Tell  me  about  your  sister. 
Tell  me  about  your  sister,  who  was  Lizette's  mother.  Tell 
me  about  the  artist  she  ran  away  with.  Tell  me  every 
thing.  Tell  me  about  the  child." 

"But  M'sieu "  said  the  old  woman,  anxiously.  "I 

shall  run  to  get  a  doctor." 

"No.     No.     No.     Tell  the  story.     Tell  it  quickly." 

Still  she  hesitated.  Murdoch  kept  his  arm  around  Ken 
tucky,  and  would  have  raised  him  to  take  him  to  a  bed,  but 
Kentucky  would  not  move  to  rise  or  take  his  strangely 
staring  eyes  from  off  the  woman's  face. 

"Go  on.    Go  on,"  he  said.    "Did  your  sister  die?" 

"She  died,"  said  the  old  woman,  wonderingly. 

"Did  she  have  a  baby?"  asked  Kentucky. 

"She  had  a  baby,"  said  the  woman. 

"Did  she  die  of  cholera?"  asked  Kentucky. 

"She  died  of  cholera,"  said  the  woman. 

Now  Murdoch  began  to  understand.  His  face  paled, 
too.  He  waited  for  Kentucky's  coming  question  in  an 
attitude  almost  as  tense  as  that  of  the  old  student  around 
whose  stooping  shoulders  his  strong  arms  were  held. 

"Did  the  baby  die?"  Kentucky  asked  with  a  twitching, 
nervous  lips. 

"The  baby  did  not  die,"  the  woman  said.  "And  that  is 
where  my  sin  lies.  We  paid  the  people  with  whom  they 
had  lodged  to  tell  the  father  when  he  came  that  the  child 
died  with  the  mother.  It  was  a  lie.  The  mother  died; 
the  baby  lived.  The  baby,  Messieurs  (and  here  the  old 
woman  swayed  with  hands  clasped  tight  between  her 
knees),  the  baby  lived  and  was  brought  here  to  Paris  by 
my  sister.  It  was  a  quarrel  that  we  had  about  this  thing, 
that  quarrel  that  made  me  do  the  thing  that  made  my 
people  tell  me  to  go  my  way  and  come  to  them  no  more. 
I  went  it.  It  has  not  been  a  good  way.  The  baby, 
Messieurs,  the  baby — was — P'tite  Madame.  The  baby  was 
Madame  Lizette." 

And  now  Kentucky  closed  his  staring  eyes,  and,  slipping 


270  LIZETTE. 

through  Murdoch's  arms,  themselves  relaxed  by  great  sur 
prise — slid  gently  to  the  floor. 

And  thus  was  the  revelation  of  Lizette's  origin  made 
to  the  two  men  who  loved  her.  Thus  were  many  things 
revealed — Kentucky's  strange  love  for  her,  which  he  had 
often  said  was  like  a  father's  love;  Lizette's  own  love  for 
him,  which  she  had  many  times  declared  was  not  like  that 
she  bore  for  Murdoch;  Lizette's  strange  and  half -under 
stood  emotions  when  she  looked  upon  that  picture  of  the 
churchyard  in  Kentucky's  attic-room;  her  puzzled  feelings 
when  she  had  been  in  that  southern  churchyard  where  the 
sentinel  poplars  stood,  and  where  the  great  bearded  artist 
had,  in  days  gone  by,  clasped  strong  arms  around  her  and 
held  her  .up  to  watch  the  fading  sunset. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 

DEFEAT. 

The  effect  of  this  amazing  revelation  on  Kentucky  was 
astonishing.  It  seemed  to  give  him  strength.  It  seemed  to 
take  the  years  away  from  him  even  as  the  weary  search  had 
added  many  to  his  quota.  The  knowledge  that  his  baby 
lived,  and  that  that  baby  was  the  little  one  he  loved  so  well 
and  for  whom  he  searched  with  Murdoch,  gave  incentive  to 
his  life — something  it  had  ever  lacked  since  he  was  told 
that  the  little  one  slumbered  in  her  mother's  arms  there  in 
the  cholera  grave  in  the  south  of  France.  If  it  were  possible 
that  the  two  men  could  be  closer  in  their  friendship  than 
they  were  before,  they  became  so  after  this  revelation  of 
their  community  of  love.  Paris  has  never  seen,  and  is  un 
likely  ever  to  see,  such  searching  as  was  made  of  it  by  these 
two  men.  Every  agency  which  they  could  bring  to  work 
with  them  was  enlisted  in  their  earnest  search.  Every 
stone  was  turned  which  human  guesswork  could  imagine 
had  underneath  it  some  clue  to  this  small  woman  who  had 
disappeared. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Murdoch  broke  down 
physically.  Lack  of  sleep,  worry  and  the  tremendous 
physical  strain  of  the  search  made  him  ill,  and  for 
three  weeks  he  was  in  his  bed -in  the  old  studio.  He 
would  let  no  woman  but  the  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  look  after  him.  He  did  not  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  feel  angry  with  her.  She  had  deceived  Lizette, 
but  also  she  had  cared  for  her  when  most  she  needed 
friends.  Many  details  of  the  poor  child's  lonely  life 
in  Paris  after  she  had  fled  from  the  lofts  of  the  shops 
where  artificial  flowers  are  made,  in  which  she  had  been 
placed  by  her  mother's  father — long  dead  now — she  told 


272  LIZETTE. 

to  Murdoch.  Murdoch  almost  felt  thankful,  as  she  talked, 
that  the  old  man  was  dead.  He  feared  that  had  he  lived 
he  should  have  wreaked  on  him  a  vengeance  for  his  treat 
ment  of  his  loved  one.  But  he  was  dead,  and  all  the  fam 
ily  were  dead  save  only  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals. 

Finally  three  months  had  passed  since  the  two  men  had 
looked  up  so  eagerly  at  the  windows  of  the  studio  which 
overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  expectantly, 
and  hoping  to  see  in  one  of  them  her  bright  face,  framed 
and  wreathed  in  welcoming  smiles.  The  police  had  given 
up.  Newspaper  advertising  had  done  no  good.  Private 
detectives  had  scoured  all  France  for  her.  Even  poor  Ken 
tucky,  who  had  sadly  aged  during  the  search,  was  convinced 
that  further  effort  was  well  nigh  useless. 

The  tragedy  had  brought  these  two  old  friends  closer 
together  than  they  had  been  before,  and  neither  considered 
for  a  moment  the  idea  of  being  parted.  So,  at  last,  tired 
and  worn,  heavy  hearted  and  sorrowful,  they  set  their  faces 
toward  America  and  journeyed  to  New  York. 


CHAPTEE  XXX. 

JOHN  MURDOCH,  BANKER. 

Once  back  again  at  the  bank,  Murdoch  threw  all  that  he 
could  of  his  energy  and  life  into  the  business  which  had 
robbed  him  of  that  which  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
else  put  together.  Early  he  worked  and  late  he  worked, 
and  his  fame  as  a  banker  spread  abroad.  He  had  never 
touched  the  canvases  Lizette  had  bought  for  him  with 
such  merry  jokings  with  the  dealer,  and  arranged  for  him 
so  prettily  by  the  easel  in  the  studio.  He  felt  certain  that 
never  again  could  he  use  brush  or  palette.  His  life,  had 
not  Kentucky  been  with  him,  would  have  become  a  veri 
table  desert  of  loneliness.  The  two  old  friends  were  ever 
in  each  other's  company,  and  their  friendship  grew  with 
the  passing  of  years. 

Years  have  their  softening  and  their  chastening  influ 
ence.  Five  of  them  had  passed  before  John  Murdoch  and 
Kentucky  ceased  to  say  in  expectation,  "When  we  find 
Lizette."  But  the  years  passed,  and  find  her  they  could 
not.  Each  year  they  went  to  Paris,  and  each  year  they 
made  new  efforts.  All  the  efforts  failed.  They  permitted 
no  change  to  be  made  in  the  old  studio  in  Paris.  Mur 
doch,  le  millionaire  Americain,  and  the  romance  of  his 
quest  for  the  little  one  he  loved  became  a  tradition  in  the 
Quarter.  By  and  by  the  changing  crowds  forgot  it  and 
did  not  even  look  with  curiosity  at  those  windows  which 
overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  In  New 
York,  when  the  story  became  known,  it  was  a  nine  days' 
wonder,  but  with  the  tenth  day  came  forgetfulness,  and  the 
old  routine  at  the  bank  began  again,  while  the  world  for 
got  the  fact  that  the  staid  and  solemn  banker  had  been  a 
most  romantic  figure  as  a  lover.  But  Murdoch  did  not 


274  LIZETTE. 

forget.  Had  not  he  had  his  old  friend  with  him  to  talk  of 
her  John  Murdoch  might  have  been  a  misanthrope. 

He  permitted  not  one  single  change  to  he  made  in  the 
studio  which  overlooked  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg. 
Everything  was  as  it  had  been.  The  old  woman  who  sold 
coals  closed  her  shop  and  went  to  live  there  in  the  studio, 
to  care  for  it  and  keep  it  ever  bright  and  cheerful  for  the 
coming  of  its  mistress — for  they  would  not  admit  that 
that  mistress  might  not  come  at  all.  Kentucky  did  not 
become  less  eccentric  with  the  passing  of  the  years.  He 
paid  his  board  to  Murdoch  regularly,  and  told  him  that  if 
he  should  once  refuse  to  take  it  he  would  take  ship  back 
to  Paris.  Murdoch  knew  he  meant  this  and  never  made 
any  question  of  it.  It  seemed  somewhat  absurd  for  him 
to  come  home  in  the  evenings  and  find  the  aged  student 
sitting  in  a  lofty-ceilinged  room  in  the  old  mansion  there 
on  Madison  avenue  poring  over  those  little  pictures  on  the 
wood,  but  each  day  he  worked  at  them  and  regularly  he 
shipped  them  to  the  dealers  to  be  disposed  of  in  Paris  at 
the  old  rates. 

"There  is  one  thing  about  this  all  that  mortifies  me,*' 
he  said  one  night  to  Murdoch. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  John  Murdoch,  looking  up  from  his 
newspaper.  His  eyes  had  a  deeper,  more  steadfast  ex 
pression  now  than  in  the  old  days  in  Paris.  But  they 
twinkled  sometimes  with  .the  dry  humor  that  had  been 
characteristic  of  his  father.  They  smiled  now  as  he  looked 
at  Kentucky  and  asked  the  question. 

"It's  this/'  Kentucky  said,  with  grumbling.  "The  deal 
ers  have  the  best  of  me.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that  before. 
By  George!  they  have  the  best  of  me  at  last." 

"How?" 

"Why  the  paint  is  always  dry  now,  before  they  pay  me 
for  my  pictures,"  said  Kentucky.  "I  can't  work  them  with 
my  wooden  box  at  such  great  distance.  I  have  to  have 
them  dry  before  they  can  be  packed  for  such  a  voyage." 

"You  told  me  that  they'd  raised  the  price,  though,"  said 
Murdoch,  smiling. 

"Oh,  that's  all  over  now.  That  was  only  for  a  little 
while.  It  only  lasted  while  they  could  say  that  I  was  your 


JOHN  MURDOCH,  BANKER.  275 

close  friend  and  tell  the  tale  of  me  that  came  out  in  the 
newspapers.  It  passed  with  the  passing  of  our  fame.  I 
only  get  the  same  old  five  francs  now." 

He  painted  on  in  silence  for  a  time,  drawing  some  of 
those  marvellously  fine  line  which  would  have  done  credit 
to  a  carriage  striper.  It  was  most  incongruous  to  see  the 
aging  student  employed  at  this  small  work  there  in  the 
luxurious  surroundings  of  the  Madison  avenue  house,  but 
Murdoch  never  hinted  to  him  that  there  was  no  need  for 
him  to  work.  He  knew  that  those  small  pictures  had  much 
to  do  with  keeping  old  Kentucky  happy  and  contented. 

"By  the  way/'  Kentucky  said  at  last,  as  he  held  one  off 
and  squinted  at  it  through  his  half-closed  eyes  exactly  as 
he  had  in  days  gone  by  while  he  painted  out  his  debt  to 
Murdoch,  and  Lizette  read  the  Testament  to  him. 

"Well?"  said  Murdoch,  interrogatively. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  at  the  bank  tomorrow?" 

"Certainly.  Am  I  ever  anywhere  else?  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  to-night,  Kentucky?" 

"Nothing.    Going  to  be  there  at  half  past  ten?" 

"Certainly,  I'll  be  there  at  half  past  ten.  Where  in  the 
world  else  would  I  be  at  half  past  ten?" 

"Don't  know.  Can't  always  tell.  I'll  drop  in  about 
then.  S'pose  I'll  have  to  give  my  name  to  that  damned 
boy!" 

"No,"  said  Murdoch.  "Just  wear  your  hat.  They  all 
know  it.  I  think  that  most  of  them  are  somewhat  afraid 
of  it." 

Kentucky  became  reflective. 

"It's  a  pity  about  that  hat,  Murdoch,"  said  Kentucky. 
"I'm  really  afraid  it's  wearing  out." 

"Not  really,"  said  Murdoch. 

"I  really  fear,"  went  on  Kentucky,  gravely,  "that,  with 
other  old  friends  of  my  childhood,  it  is  beginning  to  show 
age." 

"Why  don't  you  get  a  new  one,  really,  Kentucky,"  said 
Murdoch,  to  whom  that  hat  had  long  been  sorely  grievous. 

"I  got  one  once,  not  long  ago,"  Kentucky  said,  "and 
was  going  to  wear  it  to  the  bank.  I  knew  the  old  one 
bothered  you.  I  tried  to  wear  the  new  one?  but  I  couldn't. 


276  LIZETTE. 

The  wheels  here  in  my  head  stopped  turning  when  I  put 
new  covering  above  them,  and  I  gave  the  new  hat  to  a 
beggar.  Is  it  understood,  then,  that  at  half  past  ten  to 
morrow  you  have  an  engagement  at  the  bank  with  me — 
and  with  my  hat?" 

"It  is  understood,"  said  Murdoch. 

"All  right,  then.  Get  up,  you  slothful  creature,  and 
come  over  here  and  look.  My  brush  slipped  while  I 
painted  in  the  mouth  of  this  old  pirate  and  it  makes  him 
look  like  your  cashier.  Come  and  look  at  it." 

Murdoch  rose  and  looked.  It  did  look  much  like  Jere 
miah  Smith.  He  laughed. 

"If  you'll  sell  it  to  me,"  said  Murdoch,  "I'll  give  it  to 
him." 

"I  will  give  it  to  you  at  the  regular  price — five  francs." 

Murdoch  took  a  dollar  from  his  pocket,  and,  as  Ken 
tucky  had  put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  picture,  took 
that  also,  and  examined  it. 

"I  think  your  work  gets  worse  with  the  passage  of  years, 
Kentucky." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Kentucky,  with  conviction,  "and  it 
fills  my  soul  with  joy.  You  understand  that  that  is  the 
accomplishment  of  the  impossible.  Not  many  men  when 
dying  can  look  back  at  the  past  and  say  that  they  have 
done  that  thing  which  no  man  else  has  ever  done,  but  I 
can.  I  can  say  with  truth  that  I  have  painted  pictures 
which  were  worse  than  it  was  possible  for  human  hands  to 
paint.  I  know  it  and  I  glory  in  it.  Now  I'm  going  to 
quit." 

"Quit  what?" 

"Quit  working  for  to-night.  I've  painted  out  my  last 
week's  board  bill.  It  would  never  do  for  me  to  get  too  far 
ahead.  It  wouldn't  seem  like  me." 

"That's  right,  it  wouldn't.  Let's  talk  Quarter,"  said 
John  Murdoch. 

They  often  "talked  Quarter."  It  is  doubtful  if  they 
found  in  any  part  of  their  lives  together  such  enjoyment 
as  when  they  were  talking  of  Lizette,  or  of  the  details  of 
that  life  in  Paris  which  seemed  so  far  away  in  banking 
hours,  but  came  so  close  when  banking  hours  were  over, 


JOHN  MURDOCH,  BANKER.  277 

and  they  sat  there  in  that  solemn  brownstone  mansion, 
going  over  the  past.  More  than  once,  when  they  had  fin 
ished,  Murdoch  almost  had  to  rub  his  eyes  to  make  cer 
tain  that  New  York  was  not  the  dream  and  Paris  the 
reality.  Even  now  that  he  had  become  a  staid  and  solemn 
banker,  and  had  stopped  winning  prizes  of  honor  and  had 
turned  attention  to  what  in  the  United  States  is  consid 
ered  the  much  more  genteel  business  of  winning  dollars, 
the  old  life  there  in  the  studio  which  overlooked  the  Gar 
dens  of  the  Luxembourg  was  real  to  him  in  every  detail 
when  he  talked  of  it  with  old  Kentucky. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

A  BUSINESS  TRANSACTION. 

It  was  not  long  after  ten  the  next  morning  when  Ken 
tucky  made  his  appearance  at  the  bank.  His  quaint  fig 
ure  was  no  longer  the  object  of  such  consternation  as  it 
had  been  that  first  time  that  he  had  ever  entered  those 
dignified  portals,  when  he  had  come  to  New  York  to  get 
Murdoch  and  take  him  back  with  him  to  Paris  on  that 
sadly  futile  quest  for  poor  Lizette,  but  it  was  still  a  matter 
of  much  interest.  No  longer  did  the  employees  of  that 
staid  and  respectable  banking  house  look  on  him  with  hor 
ror,  and  consider  his  general  appearance  a  public  scandal, 
but  there  were  those  there  who  still  believed  that  if  the 
president  of  that  bank  was  to  associate  with  men  who 
looked  like  that  he  should  keep  them  caged.  But  this  day 
Kentucky  entered  with  a  confident  step. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  with  dignity,  "on  business." 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Murdoch,  sitting  straight  up  in  his 
chair.  "Sit  down  then,  my  dear  sir,"  and  laughed. 

Kentucky  was  offended,  and  Murdoch  saw  that  his 
offense  was  real.  Strange  traits  Kentucky  sometimes 
showed.  Murdoch  had  long  since  learned  to  know  that  his 
old  friend  was  a  man  of  moods,  and  that  these  moods  must 
be  carefully  respected. 

Kentucky  gravely  took  the  visitors'  chair. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  with  dignity,  "to  borrow 
money." 

"All  right,  old  man,"  said  Murdoch,  "how  much  money 
do  you  want?" 

"The  first  thing  you  should  ask,"  Kentucky  said,  ag 
grieved,  "if  you  treated  me  as  you  would  treat  another  man 
who  came  here  on  a  similar  errand,  is  what  security  I've 


A  BUSINESS  TRANSACTION.  279 

got.  You've  got  no  business  to  ask  me  first  how  much  I 
want." 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  wavered  across  Murdoch's  face,  but 
he  humored  the  old  student. 

"We  don't  ask  that  of  a  man  whom  we  know  will  not  ask 
more  than  he  can  give  security  for.  We  find  out  first  how 
much  he  wants  and  try  to  see  whether  or  not  we've  got 
that  much  to  lend.  Then  we  talk  about  security  after 
wards." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  do  with  other  people?"  asked  Ken 
tucky,  with  suspicion. 

"Yes,  that's  the  way,"  John  Murdoch  answered. 

"All  right,"  Kentucky  said.  "I  want  ten  thousand  dol 
lars." 

Murdoch  tried  not  to  gasp. 

"You  see,  it's  this  way,"  said  Kentucky.  "I've  got  to 
have  ten  thousand  dollars.  I'm  going  into  business." 

"You're  going  into  business!"  said  John  Murdoch. 

"Yes,  you  idiot,"  said  Kentucky;  "why  shouldn't  I?" 

"It's  no  more  business  for  you  to  call  me  an  idiot,  my 
dear  sir,  than  it  was  for  me  to  say  to  you  what  you  just 
now  took  such  exception  to,"  said  Murdoch. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Kentucky,  "but  I'm  no  banker, 
and  I  don't  pretend  to  be.  As  a  banker,  you  must  put  up 
with  the  eccentricities  of  your  customers  or  you'll  lose  your 
trade.  Your  customers  don't  have  to  forgive  yours.  All 
they  have  to  do  is  go  down  the  street  and  find  another 
bank." 

"Now,  old  man,"  said  Murdoch,  "don't  do  that.  We 
can't  afford  to  lose  your  business.  This  has  been  a  long, 
hard  winter." 

At  last  Kentucky  laughed. 

"Shut  up,"  he  said.  "Now  tell  me.  Will  you  lend  that 
money  to  me?  I  can  give  you  security  worth  pretty  nearly 
that  right  away,  and,  within  a  few  weeks  after  you  have 
loaned  the  money,  I  can  give  you  more." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  asked  John  Murdoch. 

"Certainly,  I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Kentucky. 

"I'll  do  it,  just  for  luck,"  said  Murdoch.  "What's  your 
security?" 


280  LIZETTE. 

Kentucky  most  impressively  pulled  out  a  large  and  busi 
ness-looking  pocketbook,  and  took  from  it  a  solemn-look 
ing  paper.  This  he  unfolded  with  much  ceremony,  smooth 
ing  out  its  creases  as  he  opened  it. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  here  a  deed  for  certain 
building  lots  in  New  Jersey." 

Murdoch  hid  his  surprise  as  best  he  could.  He  took  the 
paper.  One  glance  showed  him  that  it  was  no  deed,  but 
a  mere  contract  showing  that  Kentucky  had  paid  two  hun 
dred  dollars  on  some  land  which  he  could  take  a  title  to  by 
paying  two  thousand  dollars  more,  but  he  realized  that  it 
would  startle  the  old  student  if  he  explained  this  to  him, 
and  he  said  that  the  papers  seemed  to  be  most  satisfactory 
and  that  he  could  make  the  loan. 

"How  much  of  the  money  can  you  get  for  me  to-day?" 
asked  Kentucky. 

"You  should  have  notified  me  in  advance  if  you  had 
wanted  such  a  sum,"  said  Murdoch,  gravely.  "I  will  see 
what  I  can  do." 

He  rose  and  left  the  room.  When  he  came  back  he  held 
in  his  hand  ten  thousand  dollars.  While  he  had  been  get 
ting  it  of  the  cashier,  he  had  vainly  tried  to  puzzle  out  the 
reason  for  this  most  astonishing  performance  of  Ken 
tucky's.  One  thing  he  was  quite  certain  of,  and  that  was 
that  Kentucky  would  not  come  to  him  with  such  a  proposi 
tion  unless  he  really  believed  that  he  would  do  quite  as  he 
said  and  pay  the  money  back.  Murdoch  gave  it  to  him, 
gravely,  and  told  him  that  he  must  give  him  in  return  a 
promissory  note.  He  handed  him  a  blank,  but  Kentucky 
had  to  get  his  help  in  filling  out  the  record  of  his  obliga 
tion. 

"There,"  Kentucky  said,  as  he  put  the  money  in  his 
pocket,  "I've  got  more  money  in  my  clothes  than  they  ever 
held  before.  Do  I  give  you  this  deed  of  mine  to  my  prop 
erty,  also,  as  security,  or  is  the  note  enough?" 

"You  must  deposit  the  deed  with  me,"  said  Murdoch, 
"as  security  for  the  note." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  do  with  other  people?"  asked 
Kentucky. 

"That  is  the   way   we   do   with   everybody,"  said  the 


A  BUSINESS  TRANSACTION.  281 

banker.  "I  shall  do  with  you  exactly  as  I  do  with  other 
people  who  come  here  to  the  bank  to  transact  business." 

"All  right,"  Kentucky  said.  "All  right,  then.  Is  there 
any  written  paper  to  go  with  this  aside  from  the  deed  it 
self?" 

"If  you  look  the  paper  over,  you  will  find  on  its  back  two 
blanks  for  transfer,"  said  the  banker.  "One  of  those  you 
must  fill  out.  That  assigns  the  property  to  me,  in  case  you 
do  not  pay  your  obligation." 

Kentucky  read  the  blank  most  carefully. 

"It  looks  to  me,"  he  said,  "as  if  in  signing  that  blank 
there  I  was  giving  you  the  property." 

"You  are  doing  exactly  that — in  case  you  do  not  pay," 
said  Murdoch. 

"Is  that  the  regular  thing?"  Kentucky  asked. 

"That  is  the  regular  thing,"  the  banker  said. 

"All  right,"  said  Kentucky,  and  signed  the  paper. 
"Good-by,"  he  added.  "I've  got  other  business  to  attend 
to.  I'll  see  you  at  the  house  to-night." 

And  he  went  out,  carrying  with  him  in  his  pocket  more 
actual  cash  than  he  had  ever  seen  before,  and  leaving  in 
the  bank  a  sadly  puzzled  banker. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

KENTUCKY'S  INVESTMENT. 

When  they  reached  their  home  that  night  the  matter 
was  not  referred  to  in  any  way.  Murdoch  asked  the  butler 
when  Kentucky  had  come  in,  and  the  butler  said  that  the 
old  student  had  preceded  him  by  only  a  few  moments. 
Kentucky  was  evidently  weary,  but  he  was  also  very  evi 
dently  happy.  That  night  he  started  in  to  tell  a  story  of 
the  Quarter.  It  was  a  funny  story,  but  he  went  to  sleep 
in  telling  it,  and  Murdoch  aroused  him  only  with  a  vigor 
ous  shaking. 

"You  were  snoring  like  a  beast,"  said  Murdoch,  as  the 
old  student  shook  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Was  I?"  asked  Kentucky.  "Well,  I've  got  a  right  to  be 
a  beast.  I  own  some  land  now.  Capitalists  can  be  beasts 
and  no  one  dares  to  tell  them  so.  You've  got  to  treat  me 
with  more  respect  now  that  I'm  a  capitalist,  John  Mur 
doch." 

It  was  about  three  weeks  after  that  Kentucky,  evidently 
filled  with  joy,  unfolded  some  shiny,  half-transparent  pa 
pers  before  the  astonished  gaze  of  Murdoch. 

"Now,  you  see,  this  is  where  we're  going  to  live  in  the 
near  future.  This  is  what  I  got  that  money  for.  And 
when  you  come  with  me  to  live  there,  I'm  going  to  charge 
you  a  thundering  big  board  bill  and  make  you  pay  your 
own  loan  back." 

Murdoch  looked  at  the  papers,  which  were  the  plans  for 
a  studio  on  the  Palisades,  high  up  upon  the  Hudson's 
banks.  The  plan  of  the  main  floor  was  the  same  as  that 
of  the  studio  in  Paris. 

"I  made  up  my  mind,"  Kentucky  said,  "that  living  here 
in  this  old  house  was  too  respectable  for  both  of  us.  Of 


KENTUCKY'S  INVESTMENT.  283 

course,  we  can't  go  back  to  Paris.  I  wish  we  could,  and  so 
do  you.  But  that  is  quite  impossible.  And  so,  you  see, 
I've  had  the  old  place  reproduced  as  far  as  that  was  pos 
sible  there  on  the  bluffs.  We'll  have  the  Hudson  to  look 
at  instead  of  the  Boulevard,  in  front,  and,  on  the  side, 
there'll  be  the  swaying  trees  of  some  real  woods  instead  of 
the  pleasant  greenery  of  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg, 
but  it'll  do  both  of  us  good  to  get  away  from  Madison  ave 
nue  and  into  something  like  the  old  studio  in  Paris  again. 

"I  tell  you,  Murdoch,  we're  getting  commonplace  and 
rotten.  I  knew  it  long  ago,  and  tried  to  think  about  some 
way  to  stop  it,  but  it  took  me  a  long  time  to  figure  out  this 
way.  I  believe  that  it's  a  good  way,  Murdoch,  and  I  hope 
that  you  will  think  so.  I've  planned  it  out  for  both  of  us. 
I've  got  things  fixed  for  you  so  that  it  will  be  for  you  as  it 
was  in  the  old  days,  or  just  as  much  so  as  it  can  be,  with 
out  her.  I've  got  a  little  place  for  me  that  will  be  like,  in 
all  ways,  except  its  dirt — I've  lost  the  taste  for  dirt  since 
I  have  lost  the  taste  for  absinthe — like  my  little  room 
there  underneath  the  roof.  In  other  ways,  you  see,  the 
building  is  about  conventional.  But  it's  away  from  New 
York  City,  and  I'll  be  glad  to  rent  you  quarters  in  it,  old 
man." 

It  was  like  the  ingenuity  of  Kentucky  to  originate  such 
a  plan. 

"This  makes  me  think,"  said  Murdoch,  after  he  had 
looked  the  plans  over  carefully,  "of  the  way  you  made  a 
light  for  us  the  night  we  told  you  that  we  had  no  oil  be 
cause  we  were  afraid  you  would  make  us  sit  up  late  and  I 
had  to  go  so  early  to  the  school  that  I  did  not  want  to  sit 
up  late.  We  told  you  that  we  had  no  oil,  you  know." 

"Mn.rdoch,  man,  did  you  have  oil  that  night,  and  was 
that  all  a  put-up  job?" 

He  paused  a  second  and  looked  up  as  the  Kentucky  of 
the  old  days  had  looked  up  from  under  bushy  eyebrows 
when  he  made  a  joke. 

"I  am  getting  rapidly  to  know  you  better,  now,"  he 
added. 

"And  I  am  learning  you,"  said  Murdoch.  "Not  rapidly, 
but  slowly  learning  you.  You're  too  complex  to  do  'quick 


284  LIZETTE. 

study*  on.  But  I  am  just  beginning  to  get  acquainted  with 
your  many  varied  phases." 

"Did  you  really  think  I  swallowed  that  great  lie  of 
yours  that  night,  Murdoch?"  said  Kentucky,  with  re 
proach. 

"Why,  didn't  you?"  asked  Murdoch,  in  surprise. 

"Dear  boy,  I'm  not  congenitally  idiotic.  I  gave  you  a 
proper  punishment.  That  was  all.  If  you  had  told  the 
truth  and  said  that  you  were  tired  and  wanted  to  go  to 
sleep,  I  should  have  let  you  go  to  sleep.  I  should  certainly 
have  let  you  go  to  sleep.  It  was  only  because  I  saw  that 
you  were  clumsily  trying  to  lie  to  me  that  I  stayed  and 
stayed  and  stayed.  I  feel  that  sometimes  mere  man  must 
take  the  part  of  Providence,  when  Providence  fails  to  pun 
ish  quickly." 

John  Murdoch  looked  at  him  in  simple  wonder. 

"Did  you  really  notice  all  the  oil  there  in  those  lamps?" 
he  asked. 

"I  did,  and  when  I  saw  it,  and  when  I  saw  the  enormity 
of  the  lying  you  had  done,  I  made  my  mind  up  to  the  fact 
that  you  should  suffer  then  and  there  for  it.  I  was  sorry 
for  the  little  one.  She  had  not  lied.  I  don't  think  that 
she  could  have  lied — unless,"  he  added,  later  by  a  moment 
— "unless  she  lied  for  you.  She  could  have  even  lied  for 
you,  John  Murdoch." 

"As  Providence,"  said  Murdoch,  "you  were  merciless 
and  sly.  I  never  once  suspected  that  the  man  who  pun 
ished  me  really  knew  that  he  was  doing  so.  I  thought  that 
we  had  made  you  suffer." 

"So  you  had,"  Kentucky  answered.  "So  you  had.  But 
don't  you  see,  I  suffered  in  a  noble  cause?  I  suffered  in  my 
efforts  to  make  you  see  that  lying  does  not  pay?  You  suf 
fered,  on  the  contrary,  in  trying  to  get  sleep  through  it. 
I'm  glad  I  thought  of  that  small  business  with  the  butter 
and  the  handkerchief.  I  racked  my  brains  for  something, 
and  that  was  the  first  that  came.  It  worked.  I  made  you 
sit  up  till  almost  daylight.  Then  I  went  home  to  sleep, 
having  painted  my  full  week's  quota  of  little  pictures  and 
given  them  to  the  dealer  that  very  day.  You  see,  Mur 
doch,  that  the  transgressor's  way  is  hard  I" 


KENTUCKY'S  INVESTMENT.  285 

"It  is,  indeed/'  said  Murdoch. 
Then  he  sat  in  thought. 

"I  wish  Lizette  were  here  to  hear  that,"  he  said,  frankly. 
"It  would  make  her  laugh." 
And  hoth  men  sank  to  gloominess  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

HOPE  EEVIVED. 

Before  the  new  studio  was  ready  for  occupancy  spring 
had  come  again  and  Kentucky  left  for  his  annual  visit  to 
Paris.  Murdoch  could  not  go  that  summer.  There  had 
been  a  panic  and  matters  in  the  financial  world  were  too 
unsettled  to  permit  him  to  leave  the  bank  for  a  single  day. 
But  he  was  glad  to  have  Kentucky  make  the  pilgrimage 
to  the  old  studio  in  the  Boul'  Miche'.  He  made  the  old 
student  promise  to  see  that  everything  was  kept  ever 
ready  for  the  small  one. 

They  had  almost  given  up  their  hopes  by  now,  and  no 
longer  spoke  of  what  they'd  do  when  Lizette  again  should 
be  with  them.  But  it  was  a  sort  of  solace  to  Murdoch's 
aching  heart  to  feel  that  the  search  was  still  kept  up,  even 
though  he  did  not  expect  it  to  lead  to  any  definite  result. 
For  the  same  reason  he  kept  the  studio  always  as  it  had 
been  when  she  went  away. 

Kentucky  wrote  to  Murdoch  often  and  reported  that  the 
old  woman  who  sold  coals  was  keeping  the  studio  in  excel 
lent  order  and  that  the  fire  was  always  burning  in  the  new 
stove. 

"At  this  season  the  Gardens  from  the  windows  are  most 
beautiful,"  he  wrote.  "The  trees  are  green  and  swaying  in 
them,  and  the  birds  are  nesting  there  even  as  they  used  to 
do  when  wee  Lizette  looked  down  on  them  and  loved  them. 
I  believe  they  must  be  lonely  here  without  her.  I've  seen 
Houlier  and  he  tells  me  there  is  nothing  more  to  do.  Ho 
will  not  say  she  may  not  have  been  in  Paris.  He  says  one 
cannot  watch  all  Paris,  but  he  swears  that  all  that  could  be 
done  has  been  done.  I  guess  he's  right.  I'm  certain  that 
no  criminal  was  ever  half  so  clever  in  keeping  off  pursuers 


HOPE  REVIVED.  287 

as  this  small  child,  imbued  with  the  notion  of  self-sacrifice, 
has  been  in  eluding  those  who  love  her.  I  can't  stand  it 
here,  old  man.  It  breaks  me  up  and  wears  me  out.  I'm 
going  south  to  see  my  churchyard  once  again  and  then  I'm 
going  back  to  New  York  City  first  and  the  studio  on  the 
Jersey  Palisades  as  soon  afterward  as  it  can  be  made  fit  to 
live  in.  I  mean  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  little  traps  into 
my  own  small  room  there  under  the  sloping  roof,  so  that  I 
shall  feel  at  home  there.  I  shall  leave  in  a  couple  of  weeks 
at  the  most  and  will  cable  you  when  to  expect  me." 

Murdoch  laid  this  letter  aside  with  a  sigh.  He  had  not 
hoped  for  anything  definite,  but  still  he  sighed  over  the 
letter.  The  panic  that  had  prevented  him  from  going  to 
Paris  had  become  more  serious.  Business  houses  were 
falling  on  every  side.  Some  of  the  bank's  customers  had 
gone  under.  It  was  a  time  of  hard  work  and  severe  mental 
strain  for  bankers. 

But  all  the  hard  work  and  all  the  worry  could  not  drive 
away  the  dull,  aching  pain  that  was  in  John  Murdoch's 
heart.  They  brought  lines  of  care  into  his  face  and  made 
him  look  more  than  ever  as  his  father  had  looked  in  the 
days  when  John  remembered  him  sitting  in  that  same 
room,  but  they  could  not  make  him  forget. 

Murdoch  was  presiding  at  a  meeting  of  the  board  of  di 
rectors  on  the  day  before  that  which  Kentucky  had  set  as 
the  date  on  which  he  would  probably  sail,  when  a  cable 
gram  was  handed  to  him.  He  assumed  that  the  message 
merely  announced  Kentucky's  departure  and  he  let  it  lie 
on  the  table  until  the  directors  had  filed  out  of  the  room. 

But  when  he  had  torn  off  the  envelope  and  read  its  con 
tents  he  suddenly  sat  erect  in  his  chair  and  his  face  glowed 
with  a  look  of  hope  quite  different  from  the  settled  weari 
ness  that  had  rested  there  a  moment  before.  The  message 
was  from  Kentucky,  and  it  read: 

Have  news  of  Lizette.  Old  woman  received  letter  from  her 
saying  is  ill  and  wants  news  of  you.  No  address,  but  Houlier  has 
taken  up  search.  Will  stay  on  in  hope  of  finding  her. 

KENTUCKY. 

The  blood  surged  up  to  Murdoch's  head  so  that  the 
words  on  the  cable  form  danced  before  his  eyes.  He  had 


288  LIZETTE. 

told  himself  a  thousand  times,  "There  is  no  chance/'  but 
deep  down  in  his  heart  there  had  remained  the  hope  that 
some  day  he  should  find  Lizette.  This  message  from  Ken 
tucky,  it  was  true,  might  lead  to  nothing.  It  might 
prove  as  baffling  as  a  hundred  clues  that  had  been  run  to 
earth  without  result,  but  it  fanned  into  fresh  life  the 
smouldering  hope  that  was  ever  in  Murdoch's  heart. 

Kentucky  said  nothing  about  his  coming  to  Paris.  But 
Murdoch  felt  that  he  could  not  wait  in  New  York  even 
though  the  cable  could  keep  him  informed  of  every  step 
in  the  progress  of  the  search,  even  though  he  knew  that 
Kentucky  would  do  all  that  could  be  done,  even  though 
the  safety  of  the  bank  and  his  own  fortune  might  be  in 
the  balance. 

He  could  not  well  afford  to  leave  the  business  at  such  a 
time.  The  panic  had  brought  about  the  failure  of  some 
of  the  bank's  customers  and  it  had  required  all  Murdoch's 
influence  and  all  his  ability  to  keep  its  resources  intact. 
He  had  no  fear  of  the  ultimate  result,  for  the  bank  was  a 
strong  institution,  stronger  even  than  in  the  days  of  John 
Murdoch,  Sr.  But  there  was  no  telling  what  might  happen 
if  he  should  leave  his  post. 

Murdoch  thought  long  and  seriously  of  this  matter. 
Then  his  thoughts  drifted  away  to  Paris,  the  old  studio, 
Kentucky  and  Lizette.  He  saw  her  face  again,  not  happy 
and  smiling  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  but  pale  and  drawn  with 
suffering.  She  was  ill,  Kentucky's  message  said.  The 
blood  rushed  back  to  Murdoch's  heart  and  he  gripped  the 
arms  of  his  chair  as  he  thought  of  Lizette,  ill,  without  a 
friend  near  her,  himself  powerless  to  help  her.  He  felt 
that  he  could  not  stay.  He  thought  of  the  great  happiness 
he  had  missed  before  by  remaining  at  the  bank  when  he 
would  have  gone  to  her.  If  this  new-born  hope  was  to  be 
crushed  as  so  many  of  his  hopes  had  been  before,  he  could 
endure  it  better  there  in  Paris,  where  he  could  take  an 
active  part  in  the  search.  And  if  Lizette  were  to  be  found ! 
But  John  Murdoch  did  not  think  beyond  that  possibility. 
There  was  no  need  that  Kentucky  should  beg  of  him  to 
come  this  time.  He  hastily  sent  a  message  telling  Ken 
tucky  that  he  was  coming;  he  telephoned  to  his  house  to 


HOPE  REVIVED.  289 

have  his  luggage  made  ready;  he  sent  a  message  to  engage 
passage  by  a  steamer  that  was  to  sail  the  following  day. 
Then  he  sent  out  to  summon  the  directors  and  his  lawyer. 

The  lawyer  was  a  man  who  had  attended  to  the  interests 
of  the  Murdochs  for  more  years  than  John  had  lived.  He 
had  loved  John  Murdoch's  father;  he  loved  John  and  he 
had  a  high  opinion  of  his  business  ability.  This  opinion 
received  a  rude  shock  and  neither  he  nor  the  directors 
could  conceal  their  amazement  when  Murdoch  told  them 
that  he  must  go  to  Paris  and  that  he  had  decided  to  place 
at  their  disposal  his  entire  private  fortune  to  be  used  in 
maintaining  the  integrity  of  the  bank  if  it  should  become 
necessary  to  do  so. 

The  men  sitting  around  the  table  in  the  back  room  of 
the  banking  house  knew  that  that  fortune  ran  into  many 
figures  and  they  gazed  at  him  in  silent  astonishment  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  taken  leave  of  his  senses.  Mur 
doch  did  not  explain  his  reasons  for  going  to  Paris  further 
than  to  say  that  the  matter  which  called  him  there  meant 
more  than  all  his  fortune,  that  it  might  mean  as  much  as 
life  itself.  They  had  heard  his  story  and  they  understood 
something  of  the  reason  that  was  calling  him  away.  At 
any  rate  his  action  in  providing  for  the  necessities  of  the 
bank  had  removed  the  possibility  of  objection  on  their  part. 
A  man  who  was  so  anxious  to  go  to  Paris  that  he  was  will 
ing  to  sacrifice  a  million  dollars  in  order  to  do  so  was  not 
likely  to  be  dissuaded  by  any  argument  that  could  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  him. 

So  it  was  that  within  twenty-four  hours  of  the  time  when 
Kentucky's  message  had  reached  him  Murdoch  was  on  the 
deck  of  an  ocean  steamer  sailing  out  of  New  York  harbor, 
his  heart  a  tumult  of  hope,  but  outwardly  staid  and  digni 
fied  as  he  ever  was.  No  one  of  his  fellow  passengers  could 
have  guessed  the  romantic  nature  of  his  errand  or  would 
have  fancied  that  there  was  room  beneath  that  sedate  ex 
terior  for  thoughts  beyond  those  of  business. 

Murdoch  sent  word  to  Kentucky  from  Havre  telling  the 
hour  when  he  would  arrive,  and  when  he  alighted  from 
the  railway  carriage  in  Paris  the  old  student  was  waiting 
for  him.  Kentucky  was  all  eagerness  and  excitement,  but 


290  LIZETTE. 

the  first  look  at  his  face  told  Murdoch  that  Lizette  had 
not  been  found.  He  could  not  have  mistaken  that  message 
had  it  been  written  there. 

As  they  clattered  through  the  streets  on  their  way  to 
the  studio,  Kentucky  told  Murdoch  all  that  could  be  told 
of  the  news  that  had  brought  the  banker  from  New  York 
when  nothing  else  on  earth  could  have  moved  him  from 
his  post. 

When  he  had  returned  from  the  south  of  France,  Ken 
tucky  said,  he  had  noticed  that  something  agitated  the  old 
woman  who  sold  coals.  Her  usual  cheerfulness  was  lack 
ing.  She  had  appeared  much  troubled  and  distraught  as 
she  went  about  her  duties  in  the  studio,  and  when  Ken 
tucky  referred  to  Lizette  in  giving  directions  for  the  care 
of  the  studio,  at  the  time  when  he  was  preparing  to  depart, 
she  had  gone  hastily  out  of  the  room  with  her  apron  to  her 
eyes. 

This  action  on  the  part  of  the  old  woman  confirmed  a 
suspicion  which  had  been  forming  in  Kentucky's  mind. 
When  he  accused  the  old  woman  of  having  seen  Lizette  or 
knowing  something  of  her  whereabouts  she  had  broken 
down  and  acknowledged  that  she  had  most  alarming  news 
of  her. 

She  had  received  a  letter  from  the  little  one — Kentucky 
told  this  part  of  the  story  with  tender  emotion  that  made 
it  easier  for  Murdoch  to  bear,  though  it  brought  the  tears 
to  his  eyes  in  a  quick  rush  of  emotion.  Lizette  had  written 
that  she  was  ill — at  least  she  had  not  said  that  she  was  ill, 
but  that  she  was  "so  vairy,  vairy  tired,"  she  feared  she  had 
not  much  longer  to  live.  She  was  going  away,  and  she 
must  hear  once  more  of  Pudgy — yes,  and  of  dear,  old  Ken 
tucky.  The  old  woman  must  not  let  them  know  of  this 
letter,  but  she  must  write  and  tell  Lizette  what  she  knew 
of  Murdoch — if  he  was  married — if  he  was  well  and  happy 
in  far  distant  America  and  if  he  had  been  recently  to  the 
old  studio. 

It  was  not  a  long  letter,  but  the  tone  of  sad  weariness 
that  pervaded  it  told  even  more  than  Lizette's  confession 
that  she  was  "so  vairy,  vairy  tired."  The  old  woman  had 
answered  the  letter — had  told  her  that  Murdoch  was  in 


HOPE  REVIVED.  291 

America  and  that  Kentucky  was  about  to  go  there  after  a 
brief  visit  to  the  old  studio.  At  the  same  time  she  begged 
Lizette  to  release  her  from  her  promise  of  secrecy  and  to 
write  to  Murdoch,  who  loved  her  and  would  always  love 
her.  She  had  told  her  that  it  was  not  right  to  remain  in 
hiding  from  him  and  from  Kentucky  and  begged  her  at 
least  to  come  to  the  studio  that  she  might  see  her  once 
more. 

All  this  the  old  woman  said  she  had  written  to  Lizette, 
but  afterward  she  had  been  much  worried  by  the  matter, 
and  even  though  it  were  a  sin  upon  her  soul — for  Lizette 
had  adjured  her  to  say  nothing  of  having  seen  her  or  heard 
from  her — she  would  tell  Kentucky  all  she  knew.  It  was 
not  right  that  the  little  one  should  hide  herself  away,  alone 
and  heart-sick,  from  those  who  loved  her. 

As  soon  as  Kentucky  had  heard  this  he  had  sent  his  mes 
sage  to  Murdoch  and  had  communicated  the  news  to 
Houlier,  who  had  at  once  caused  the  city  to  be  searched 
with  all  thoroughness,  but  without  result.  It  was  certain 
that  Lizette  had  been  in  Paris;  the  postmark  of  the  letter 
showed  that  it  had  been  mailed  in  the  city. 

But  it  was  not  at  all  certain  that  she  was  there  when  the 
search  was  made.  She  had  said  that  she  was  going  away 
and  very  likely  she  had  done  so.  The  letter  which  the  old 
woman  had  written  she  had  been  directed  to  send  poste 
restante,  so  that  it  afforded  no  clue  once  it  had  been  deliv 
ered.  Kentucky  himself  had  written  a  letter  and  Houlier 
had  had  the  post-office  watched,  but  no  one  had  come  to 
claim  it.  The  outlook  apparently  was  most  discouraging. 

Murdoch  was  greatly  cast  down  by  this  report.  The 
momentary  gleam  of  hope  caused  by  Lizette's  letter  had 
flickered  and  gone  out,  leaving  them  in  darkness  as  before. 
The  anguish  of  the  two  old  friends  was  great.  Added  to 
the  knowledge  that  Lizette  was  lost  to  them  was  the  fact 
that  she  was  ill,  possibly  in  need,  and  that  they  were  power 
less  to  help  her.  Spurred  on  by  this  thought,  Murdoch  had 
all  Paris  searched  again.  Under  Houlier's  direction,  de 
tectives  went  over  the  city  as  with  a  fine-toothed  comb,  but 
no  trace  of  Lizette  was  found.  They  were  forced  reluc 
tantly  to  admit  that  she  probably  had  left  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AT  LAST. 

Murdoch  aged  greatly  in  those  weeks  of  searching.  The 
gray  began  to  show  thickly  among  the  brown  hair  that 
Lizette  had  used  to  stroke  so  softly.  Kentucky's  grief  was 
bowing  his  broad  shoulders,  but  when  he  saw  how  Murdoch 
was  eating  his  heart  out  among  these  familiar  scenes,  he 
advised  him  to  return  to  New  York. 

Murdoch  was  loath  to  go,  but  at  length  the  calls  of  busi 
ness  became  imperative.  A  month  had  gone  by  ajid  he 
had  to  acknowledge  that  the  chances  of  finding  Lizette 
seemed  more  remote  than  ever.  A  couple  of  days  before 
the  time  set  for  his  departure,  the  two  friends  left  the 
studio  in  the  dusk  of  the  gathering  twilight  to  go  to  din 
ner.  They  were  unusually  solemn,  for  Murdoch's  hopes 
had  vanished. 

"It  is  too  late/'  he  said  to  Kentucky,  as  they  walked 
along.  "We  shall  never  see  her  again."  And  Kentucky, 
bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  the  same  conviction,  had  no 
encouragement  to  offer. 

So  absorbed  were  they  in  their  own  sad  thoughts  that 
they  did  not  hear  their  names  called  shrilly  from  behind, 
and  they  had  gone  a  block  further  before  the  puffing  and 
blowing  of  some  one  running  feebly  attracted  their  atten 
tion.  They  turned  to  discover  its  cause  and  were  aston 
ished  to  see  the  old  woman  who  sold  coals  hobbling  after 
them  as  fast  as  her  rheumatic  old  limbs  could  carry  her. 

She  was  so  completely  out  of  breath  when  she  came  up 
with  them  that  she  could  not  speak  for  several  minutes. 
Her  breathing  was  so  labored  and  her  face  of  such  a  pur 
plish  hue  from  the  exertion  of  running  that  Murdoch 
feared  she  would  fall  in  an  apoplectic  fit  before  she  could 
reveal  the  cause  of  her  excitement. 


AT  LAST.  293 

After  sitting  down  on  the  curb  for  a  few  minutes  and 
gasping  for  breath,  while  the  two  men  anxiously  bent  over 
her,  she  managed  to  ejaculate — "Lizette!" 

"What?  Where?  Have  you  seen  her?"  cried  Murdoch 
and  Kentucky,  growing  all  at  once  as  excited  as  herself. 
The  old  woman  nodded. 

"In — the — studio,"  she  gasped.  "She — came  in — just — 
after  you  left.  I  saw  her — as  I  sat — talking — with  the 
concierge.  She  came  in — the  outer  door.  At  first — I  was 
frightened.  I  thought  she  was  dead — that  it  was  her 
spirit  I  saw.  She  was  so  white — so  thin.  But  then  she 
started  to  go  up  the  stairs — toward  the  studio.  She  moved 
— oh,  so  slowly!  She  was  very  weak.  But  I  knew  it  must 
be  she.  I  did  not  speak  to  her.  I  ran  after  you  to  bring 
you  back.  I  called  you,  but  I  could  not  make  you  hear. 
Go  quickly — you  will  find  her." 

Murdoch  waited  only  to  learn  for  a  certainty  that  Lizette 
was  in  the  studio.  Then  he  set  off  at  a  run,  seizing  Ken 
tucky's  hand  and  dragging  the  older  man  after  him.  At 
the  street  door  they  scarcely  paused.  Murdoch  took  the 
stairs  in  leaps  of  three  steps  and  Kentucky's  long  legs  came 
flying  after  him. 

At  the  foot  of  the  flight  leading  to  the  studio  they  mod 
erated  their  pace  and  advanced  more  quietly.  The  door 
was  ajar  and  they  pulled  it  softly  open  and  looked  in. 

Shadows  filled  the  room,  except  for  the  glow  from  the 
stove  and  the  dim  light  that  came  from  the  windows.  But 
as  they  peered  through  the  deepening  twilight  they  could 
see  the  outline  of  a  prostrate  form  stretched  prone  on  the 
floor  beneath  the  picture,  "Parting." 

It  was  Lizette! 

Kentucky  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  gesture  of  in 
finite  yearning.  Then,  with  a  sort  of  dry  gasp,  he  drew 
back,  and,  seizing  Murdoch  by  the  shoulders,  pushed  him 
inside  the  room.  The  door  closed  between  them. 

Murdoch  advanced  quickly  to  where  the  prostrate  figure 
lay.  The  brilliant  afterglow  of  the  sunset  suddenly  bright 
ened  the  western  windows  with  warm  color  and  illumined 
the  painting  above  the  bowed  head.  Murdoch  kneeled  in 
an  ecstasy  of  emotion,  and  lifted  the  slight  figure. 


294  LIZETTE. 

"Lizette,  little  one!  At  last  I  have  found  you!"  he 
cried. 

There  was  a  sudden  movement,  a  half-stifled  gasp,  then 
two  arms  were  clasped  tightly  about  his  neck,  and  Lizette's 
head  was  buried  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  sweet  voice — 
oh,  so  weak  and  pitiful! — murmured: 

"Pudgy!    Oh,  Pudgy!" 

Murdoch  carried  her — how  light  a  burden  she  was! — 
across  to  the  sofa  that  stood  along  the  wall.  There  he  laid 
her  tenderly  down,  being  compelled  to  kneel  himself  be 
cause  those  encircling  arms  would  not  release  their  hold. 

Presently,  the  two  arms  were  slowly  unclasped,  and 
Lizette  sank  softly  back  upon  the  pillows.  The  eyes 
opened  and  gazed  shyly  at  him  with  a  half-frightened, 
wholly  happy  look.  Then  she  suddenly  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillow  and  murmured  brokenly: 

"Oh,  Pudgy!  I  am  so  sorry  to  give  to  you  the  great 
bother." 

But  Murdoch  stopped  further  speech  with  many  kisses. 

After  a  time  he  gently  released  his  hand,  which  was 
clasped  between  Lizette's  two  thin  white  ones,  and,  going 
to  the  door,  he  called  Kentucky.  The  old  student  was 
pacing  back  and  forth  upon  the  lower  landing,  his  head 
bent,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  When  he  heard  Mur 
doch's  voice  he  came  quickly  up,  and,  without  asking  any 
questions,  entered  the  studio.  He  bent  over  Lizette  with 
streaming  eyes,  and,  as  he  looked  into  her  face,  the  cry  of 
his  heart  that  had  been  stifled  for  so  many  years  found 
utterance. 

"Oh,  my  daughter!  Oh,  my  little  one!  God  has  given 
you  back  to  me." 

Lizette  said  not  a  word,  but,  with  the  contented  smile  of 
a  tired,  happy  child  still  on  her  sweet,  wan  face,  she 
reached  up  her  arms,  and,  pulling  Kentucky's  great  shaggy 
head  down  to  her,  she  pressed  a  soft  kiss  on  his  forehead. 
There  was  no  need  of  explanation.  There  was  no  surprise 
on  Lizette's  part.  She  had  half  guessed  the  truth  in  that 
churchyard  in  the  south  of  France — the  churchyard  of  the 
picture  and  the  churchyard  of  the  memories. 

Murdoch  was  shocked  at  Lizette's  appearance,  and  the 


AT  LAST.  295 

old  woman  was  dispatched  without  more  ado  to  bring  a 
physician.  But  Kentucky  was  jubilant  and  confident. 

"She's  suffering  from  starved  affections,"  he  whispered 
to  Murdoch.  "The  medicine  she  needs  is  the  magic  medi 
cine  of  love.  Don't  worry,  old  man,  but  thank  God  that 
that  damned  banking  business  didn't  keep  you  away  this 
time." 

Together  they  moved  the  sofa  in  front  of  the  new  stove 
— an  old  stove  now — and  there  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
firelight  they  sat,  one  on  each  side  of  Lizette,  each  with 
one  of  her  small  hands  clasped  in  his.  Their  hearts  were 
too  full  for  words;  no  words  were  needed.  As  they  sat 
there  in  the  warm  firelight,  Murdoch  knew  by  the  loving 
clasp  of  Lizette's  hand  on  his  big  fingers  that  his  love 
would  not  run  away  from  him  again. 


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